Science Geek Series
by Rosesumner
Summary: The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." -Carl Jung. Logan's departure and return to the mansion, inspired by scientific definitions. Please read,enjoy,and review!
1. Momentum: Impetus of a Moving Object

Momentum: Impetus of a Moving Object

I hate to break tradition, but this story starts with my death.

Knocked unconscious by a self-righteous jerk with a metal fetish, cuts that would require stitches and a hospital stay on a man without my...gifts, a cheerful kick in the crotch by the blue bitch, six (voluntary) blades through the chest, bruises, pulled muscles, three broken ribs and, my personal favorite, that oh-so-special experience of having my claws bent back in my arms. Yeah. Fun night.

But none of that, none of it compares to the pain I felt, seeing Marie's limp body, not hearing her heart beat. I'd have let Sabertooth claw my spine out, then shifted so he could get at my kidneys, just to see her chest rise with breath, or her eyes move under those closed lids. I would have been happy even to hear her screaming in fear or pain, because then at least I would know she was alive.

I cradled her, I kissed her forehead. Sweet, beautiful girl. So quiet and still. Not a mark on her, but my senses will never let me mistake asleep for living.

Her fucking skin, so soft and pale. Stupid skin. Fucking mutation that wouldn't even work when she needed it the most. It was cold, standing there in the place where the Statue of Liberty's flames should have been. She was still a little warm, but that was fading fast. I pulled her closer. Rogue. Kid. Marie. My chest ached and my eyes burned. _(i'll take care of you...you promise?)_

And when that familiar, hideous suction finally began, when I feel the pull of my life in to hers and my vision became hazy and weak around the edges-

_(yeah. yeah, i promise) _I'm happy.

-Waking up in that lab bed yet again, the cold, stringent hospital smells clearing my nose like a jalapeno and making me feel nauseous and angry at the same time. Why didn't they just leave me in the room upstairs? The one Chuck assigned me?

Did it ever cross the telepath's mind that those heart monitors, needles, metal tables might make me want to pop a claw-or six? I'm tired and sore,but nothing too bad. The same ache I could get from a vigorous run. Not as bad as the last time Rouge and I touched.

Soft, feminine hands are on me, running lightly up and down my chest. I knew immediately they were Jean's, even without my special senses. She has those long nails. Why is she always feeling me up? I'd be happy to give her a nice roll and tumble, but I'd also like to be fully awake for it.

Still, when I open my eyes and see the doctor's face looking down-those sharp green eyes, that sensuous flirty mouth and a shirt that was buttoned a little less than necessary-I'm stunned for a moment by an emotion I don't quite recognize. Disappointment? Why was I expecting brown hair instead of red?

She tells me the kid's okay, that my healing ability took care of her. Good. Good. I try not to smile but muscles I didn't know were tensed loosen in my body. Jean says Rogue 'took on a few of my more charming personality traits', and I don't know what she means but I'm feeling too relieved to ask. The kid's okay. I saved her. Marie's alright.

"I think she's a little taken with you."

I feel a bubble of warmth in my chest, which I attribute to being happy that the kid's alive, able to even have a crush. "Well, you can tell her my heart belongs to someone else."

That great red-lipsticked mouth curves up in a smile, and her scent spikes with lust. Oh yeah, Jean wants me.

The X-team, sitting on the couch watching TV, looking so casual you wouldn't think that just the other night they were in leather uniforms trying to save the leaders of the world on the Statue of Liberty itself. Scott has his arm wrapped around Jean, so smug and comfortable...I hope that sweater vest gives him a rash. Various teenage freaks are playing card games, checkers, and Foosball, hanging out like a sitcom family.

God, I need to get the hell out of here.

The directions Chuck gave me-detailed and even laminated- are folded up in my pocket _(a military compound.....Alkali lake...)._ For the first time I have a trail, a real lead. I can find out who I was. I'm going to have a past.

Marie. Laughing with her friends, her brows furrowed in concentration and a scent of pleasant competition as she plays at the Foosball table. I haven't seen her much since I woke up. Her skin has a pink tint to it, much better than it had been on that statue- much healthier than when I first saw her at that bar. I stand there watching her for a few moments in the doorway, see her grin at the blond kid next to her. This is a good place,and she'll be taken care of. Her life is full now. No need for me to step in that room and spoil it.

Jean was the only one that spotted me as I made to go, but her's was a quick glance, and she turned back to the television.

Quick footsteps behind me and the knowledge that leavings not going to be so clean cut. I take my hand off the doorknob.

"You runnin' again?"

That teasing southern voice of hers, and if it weren't for my heightened sense of smell I would never have recognized that hurt under Marie's question. Hurt. Was I hurting her? Did she think I was going back on my promise on the train? That I wouldn't look out for her? Fuck.

"Nah. Just got a few things to take care of up North." I'll come back, kid.

That hair, falling around her cheeks, so soft and thick. Brown eyes wide-too big for her face, but somehow fitting. I reach out and touch one of those strips of pure white in her hair. I thought I'd been hallucinating when I saw them at Liberty Island. For some reason I think of angel wings.

"I kinda like it," Marie said, shrugging carelessly. Of course she did. I almost feel myself smile,again.

"I don't want you to go." She sounds so honest, so serious. But not hopeful. And she doesn't ask me to stay. I'm so bad at goodbyes...Actually, come to think of it, I've never really given one. Not one that matters, anyway. The people I meet don't Shit. And Marie's looking at me with those wide eyes and I remember what Jean said about being taken. _(Alkali lake. My memories. My memories.) _Hell.

I adjust my hold on my knapsack awkwardly. Then, without pausing to let myself think, I unclip the chain from my neck and press the thin strip of metal-once upon a time my only real possession, and still a physical link to my past-l into her gloved palm.

"I'll be back for this."

Did I mean my tags, or to hold her hand? I didn't ask myself that question for a long time.

I left. The pull of that road was a song I could already hear. The longing to go and not stop, to pick up speed and fly. I did not look back at Marie. I didn't.


	2. Inertia: In Constant Motion

Inertia: In Constant Motion

I love this bike. This thing is incredible. One-eye really outdid himself, but you would never catch me saying that to his face...or to anyone with, well, ears.

I love the feel of the wind, slamming against me, blowing back my hair and drawing my lips in an involuntary snarl. That pressure is my favorite part, next to the danger. It's something to fight against, something I can cut through without ever popping my claws. That red button Scooter put in sure is handy, and I'm curious how he did it. Speedometer says I'm going thrice the speed limit, but who pays attention to those things? Besides I know trails up here where no cops ever go.

I'm making good time. The Professor said the compound was close to where Storm and Cyclops picked me up. It's crazy to think I was so near to it. But gas only lasts so long, especially when you're going 120 miles per hour. I've got one hundred dollars and a knapsack of clothing(half of which borrowed from Xavier) to my name, thanks to Sabertooth and the loss of my trailer. And it's cold. How could I have forgotten how freezing it is up here? Healing factor or not, I'll be an Popsicle if this motorcycle dies on me.

It's like a reflex, pulling into that parking lot. Rusting cars, loud music. This country tavern is like a thousand other's I've seen-brown, dirty, looks like it's gonna fall in on itself any day now. As rough outside as it is inside. I've been here a couple times before, on the fight circuit. How else is someone like me going to make a quick buck? I can earn some money here, enough to

_(Alkali Lake. My past.)_

keep going.

Why did I sit there? Puddles forming around my boots from the snow, watching pickup trucks and chipped vans pull in. There's an odd feeling of revulsion in my at the idea of that bar. Fighting drunken rednecks with swastikas on their necks and hearing the coos of women with badly dies hair, oily perfume. Even the thought of a beer is turning my stomach. It never changes, no matter what bar, no matter what town. Sickening repetition. Westchester was a break in that pattern, and maybe I'm worried that once I go inside, things will go back to the way they were before I found the kid under that tarp. Shit. What am I bitching about? A couple days in a mansion and I'm turning into a Scott. Time to stop whining.

I stand and swing my denim-clad leg off the bike, push it to the corner of the lot. The thought of someone trying to steal the bike crosses my mind(it's certainly better shape than the other decaying choppers around here) but I shake it off. Few people are that suicidal, and I would make them scream for a long time.

The bar's smell hits me with an embrace like a welcome son-beer, stale peanuts, piss, blood, and even less pleasing aromas. Way to fit the stereotype, guys.

And then I slipped back in to a role I'd been playing for fifteen years. After those first few moments, I felt no more reluctance.

And that is how my life went for awhile. There's not much to say, folks. I fight. I let shots of whiskey and cool beer(which, I have to add, was flat more often than not. Snow covers three-fourths of Canada and the fight bars can't keep the Molson cold. Go figure.) slide down my throat. I flirt with the women, because that's what I do. Not exactly keeping an empty bed just because of a red-headed doctor who likes to make her boyfriend jealous. I take them back to whatever grimy hotel room...or to a bathroom stall, or a quiet part of an alley, give them what they ask for and take what I want. In the mornings I get on the motorcycle and ride toward the Canadian Rockies.

You'd think I'd be excited. And I am. I am. This is what I've been waiting for, right? The anticipation is like a ball or static in my chest, a magnet drawing me forward

But I don't need to hurry. Canada's a big fucking continent; it's gonna take me a month and a half no matter how fast I drive. And....I can't quite get Weschester out of my head. I find it cropping up in my mind at random times, and it takes a little concentration off driving. I think of the mansion, steady meals and a clean bed. Storm, and what she said about choosing a side. Jean, and Scott with his arm around her. Marie. Her hair.

At a gas station in Alberta, as a young man with a rather pathetic goatee rings up my bill, I caught myself studying a rack of scarves. I wouldn't normally pay attention to stuff like that- why would I? But one was dark green, with lace flowers.

"This too," I tell the cashier gruffly. He doesn't look up.

I don't know Marie's last name. So I address it to Charles Xavier and tell him to pass it on to Rogue.

After mailing the package, things get easier. I pay more attention to the women under my hands, the road under my tires. At night, sometimes I fantasize about Jean. She's fun. I imagine Scooter's face if he walked in on her and me in the lab...in their room...on his bike....on that couch in front of the TV.

And when thoughts of Westchester become too frequent...when I remember how wide Marie's eyes were_(i don't want you to go)_ -how I couldn't hear her heart on that statue-how Jean said she was taken with me-how I promised to take care of her...

then I find a gift to send. Girls like presents, don't they? A new jacket. A postcard of the mountains. A lighter. Some sun glasses. A stone carving of a wolf. It's selfish, I know. Sending shit to ease my guilt. How did I think I knew how to take care of someone? But I like the thought of her opening those packages. Her having nice things, even it they're simple. Xavier is giving her a home. I figure the least I can offer is stuff to fill it. Something beyond the Absolutely Essential. Because I know that's the rule she's lived by for so long. Like me.

And always, I keep going.


	3. Fission: Breaking Down and Light Year

Fission: Breaking Down and Light Year: The Distance Between Us

There's nothing here.

There's. *Nothing*. Here.

Alkali Lake, the military compound that Xavier said- that Xavier *promised* was here- is nothing but an empty metal shell. Weeds and wildlife growing rampantly, cracks in the walls and steel tinted red with rust. The roof is falling apart, and the floor-what remains of it-is so torn up that even I dare not walk across it. With the lack of people, nature has taken over and it is almost impossible to distinguish the outside forest from within. Birds have made their nest inside, along with many other animals. Plants-the sturdy kind that take root even in winter- have flourished, growing up and winding around what might have once been tables. I think there might have been a fire here once, some of the walls...what I can see, anyway, are stained black. Icicles longer than my claws hang in abundance. It's obvious that if there had ever been an important facility here, it had not been active in a long, long time.

I hear the crackling sound of snow and smell fur, warm blood. A skinny white wolf, ribs showing and a copper tail appears from the open door. Hunting for food, probably. There's a moment when the creature looks at me, steadily, measuring. I feel a closer kinship with him than with most humans I meet. The wolf gives a slight deferential whine, turns, and leaves me alone.

The disappointment is a crushing, squeezing fist around my chest. It hurts.

The Wolverine wakes up, from the box in my head where I usually keep him,and growls, frustrated and enraged. I want to yell. I want to curse. I want to sink my claws- those metal knives *they* gave me- into a body, cut bone and flesh. I want to cry.

Days go by. A week, and then a month. Two months. Time has never meant much to me. My nights are the same, one after the other. I guess I was hanging on to this lead of Chuck's more desperately than I thought.

I'm angry. I get fewer opponents in the cage, reputation preceding me as being more ruthless than ever. I man near Lethbridge tried to rob me. I broke his arm. In three places. The barflies appeal to me less and less. Women who talk in shrill, twanging voices and eyes hardened by disenchantment. They've started to look alike, too. Blond or black or red or brunette.

I haven't sent anything to Marie in awhile.

I blame the Professor. Not completely- the better part, at least, of me know that Alkali Lake was along shot in the first place. And it's that part that's telling me I'm actin' like a petulant kid. A petulant, cage fighting kid. With side burns. But, well, I'm not always ruled by my reasonable half. I guess I thought meeting Xavier, and all of them, would change things.

(*...i'll help you find what you're looking for...*) He'd help me, like he'd done with all the rest of them. That was stupid. I know. My life never changes. It's the same bag of repetitious crap I've been dealing with for -haha- as long as I can remember. I don't change. And what did I think, that Chuck was some goddamn Father Christmas, gonna restore my memories, just like that? Shit. It was probably just some ruse. A ploy to get me to put on their little leather suit and join the X-Fuckers.

I don't wanna go back. Not to a house of idealistic freaks who think they can change the world. Who don't understand that bad shit can happen to people, over and over. And there ain't no reason for it, no way to make it better. But that's alright. It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

The TV didn't work. The sign outside the motel said *"Cable TV! Color! 98 Channels!"* It promised *"Cable TV! Color! 98 Channels!"*. I payed ten dollars extra for *"Cable TV! Color! 98 Channels!"*......But there's nothing but humming, pepper static filling the screen.

In retrospect, it occurs to me that I over-reacted. Perhaps the room did not need quite so many claw marks. I did not need to break that television set. And, just possibly, the mattress springs could have remained inside the mattress.

Too late now.

Thirty miles outside Yellowknife-- four months, eight days and seventeen hours since the School gates closed behind me -- I watch The Blond pop an olive in her mouth and smile at me over her drink. Her breath is gonna smell. I don't say anything, because she looks anorexic. Maybe that olive is the only thing she's had to drink today.

The barkeeper has given me the purse for tonight's fight. My share came to about six hundred dollars. Not bad.

The Blond is talking. Can't remember her name. Selena? Stephi? Sheri?

--She doesn't come here that often, do I? Her ex-boyfriend like drinking six pack at home. He never took her out anywhere. Wouldn't even let her in on those card games with his friends, and does she look like the kinda girl who deserves that? What a jerk......Shirley? Sonia?...She says I don't talk much. She likes my belt buckle. It's big. Am I a cowboy? Do I always wear my hair like that? It's different. But not in a bad way. She laughs. It's kinda hot...Sheri? Shannon?....She's a nonconformist too. Do I have any tattoos? How long have they called me King of the Cage?

Sharlene. That's it. I lean forward and ask if she wants to get out of here. "I might be King of other things too." It's a cheap line, but she blushes and gives me a flirty grin. There's lipstick on her teeth.

This motel has a TV too. It works. I checked. I'll watch the hockey game later, when The Blond - Sharlene - leaves.

She's kissing my neck, licking. She asks why I wear so many shirts, undoing the buttons with manicured nails. I'd prefer to leave them on and just unzip, but it's not worth debating. Her sweater comes off easily. She has a birthmark on her left breast. It kinda looks like Florida.

She's got the bedsheets clenched in one fist. Her leg is wrapped around my hip,

"Mmmmm...mmmh...So what's your...real name, anyway?" Jesus. Is she still talking? I nip at one of her nipples. The right one, not the Florida one.

"I mean, it can't...oh...be..mmmh...Wolverine...I mean, what kind of name is Wolverine?"

.........

"Hey-hey, what's wrong? Why'd you stop?....What are you doing? Where are you going? Wolverine? Wolverine? What the fuck?"

......."Who's gonna drive me back to the bar?"

Four months, eight days, and eighteen hour after the School gates closed behind me, I get on One-Eye's bike and start driving East. South East, if you wanna be picky about it. Towards New York.


	4. Aurora Borealis:Brilliant Colors

Aurora Borealis: Glowing In Brilliant Colors

"I'm an octopus," the child said in all earnestness. He didn't look like one.

The boy was about seven, with curly brown hair and a smiling mouth. He was one of a group playing on the lawn when I pulled up, and had come running as soon as he saw me stop the bike. He didn't seem particularly concerned that I was a stranger.

It wasn't quite the welcome I expected. I cleared my throat, set the bike on it's kickstand. "Uuhh...Good for you?" The little boy let out a delighted shriek of laughter, turned, and ran back to his friends. As he did, I noticed the tail, furry and long, trailing on the ground behind him. Wow.

The mansion hasn't changed since I was last here. Looks the same, smells the same, sounds the same. The trees may be a little more bare-but then again, it is Winter. Other than that the place fits perfectly with the snapshot I've been carrying in my head. I shouldn't be so surprised. Did I think my absence would have that big of an effect on the school? Christ. I was only here a few days.

Actually, I'm kind of relieved. I'm so used to watching the world shift around me, move forward while I stand still. Now that's not the case. And it proves four months wasn't *really* so long a time to be away. It wasn't.

I walk through the oak doors and am in the foyer barely a moment- enough to take in the polished mahogany furnishings, the deep atmosphere of comfort- before my name is being called.

"Logan!"

And Marie is there, striding toward me, all smiles and chocolate hair. Jesus. She looks healthy, slim. She's taller too(is that possible?) and walks with a graceful lope.

"Logan," Marie says again, throwing her arms around me for a quick, careful hug. I return it fighting the grin that wants to take over my mouth. I lose. I'm smiling at her.

"You miss me kid?"

Her hair is longer, sleeker. Smells like coconut shampoo.

"Not really." Yeah. Uh-huh. She's looking like I just gave her a fucking pony.

God, what is this? I feel so warm I wish I'd come back sooner, instead of dragging my ass around Canada.

"Mmm-hmm." I say. "How you doing?" She looks well, but that could be my wishful thinking. Are they taking care of her?

"I'm okay. How are you?" Her brown eyes are so intent, like she really cares about the answer. I give a smile, shrug, start to reply. I want to know if she got my gifts. Did she like them?

But this boy walks- struts- up from no where, comes to stand behind Marie and I feel that warmth draining away. Nothing that short should look that smug. I can feel myself respond naturally to that possessive stance he takes. My nerves prickle to attention. It's an animal instinct, everyone has it. Being the Wolverine just makes it worse.

"Who's this?"

"Oh! This is Bobby. He's my-"

"I'm her boyfriend," the boy cuts her off, forcefully. He hold out his hand. I take it, amusement battling irritation inside me.

"Call me Iceman."

It's like my arm's been thrust into a pile of half-melted snow. My hand stiffens, then turns painfully numb. Then Bobby lets go. I flex my fingers. They crack. Nice. I look at him, measuring. Iceman looks proud of himself, little tyke.

"Right. *Boyfriend?* So how do you guys?...." I'm tempted to waggle my eyes at him in case he misses the point, but there's no need to be undignified. Marie looks like she's about to laugh, hanging in there by a nail. "Bobby", on the other hand, turns bright pink. Cute.

"Well, we're still-ah- working on that," he says hurriedly, shuffling his feet. Yeah, son. You're no match for me. Just get out of the ring.

Not that we're competing.

"Look who's come back. Just in time." The weather witch appears, carrying as ever the scent of electricity.

"For what?", I ask.

"We need a baby-sitter." Storm declares, smirking cheerfully.

"Baby-sitter," I repeat, baffled at the depth of poor judgement those words imply. I glance at Marie. I like Storm, I'm happy to see her again. Bu t I have to wonder if she's lost her mind.

"Nice to see you again, Logan."

The stairs creek and I inhale perfume. And then Dr. Grey is there, coming down the stairs so regally. "Hi, Logan." She has a new haircut. It's pretty nice.

"Hi, Jean."

"Uh, I should...go get the jet ready." Ororo glances at Jean, and a obscure but sharp *look* passes between them, the significance of which is beyond me. What was that narrowing of eyes? Storm is gone before she can explain the oh-so-important 'baby-sitter' remark.

"Yeah, well, it was nice meeting you.", says Bobby,who seems to have found his testicles again. He's like a dear, fleeing as soon as you break eye contact. My eyebrow seems to lift of it's own accord. Yep, nice to meet you too.

"Come on, let's go." And then he-then the boy grabs Marie's wrist, tugging.

"B-bye, Logan. I'll see-see you later." She walks backward a few feet, as if not wanting to leave. I get the strange urge to follow. It's my protective instincts, I tell myself. Nothing more. I don't like the way he took hold of her wrist. How dare that punk drag her like that? He-he coulda pulled out of it's socket! Yeah. I should make sure Marie's okay. But..no, she's smiling. Maybe she's putting on a brave face? I should-

No. Look at Jean. Look at Jean.

"Okay," I call after Rogue. The kid's fine.

"Storm and I are going to Boston. We won't be gone long," Jean tells me. Her voice is almost a purr. She looks good. Better than good-she's a beautiful woman...although maybe I could do without that perfume. It's heavy(I can never tell that stuff apart. With my senses, all I pick up is wet chemical, with sometimes a splash of flowers.)

"Boston?"

"Yeah. The Professor caught word of a mutant there who might need out help." Her mouth is just how I remember it, thin and sensuous. But....weren't her eyes a little greener? Her hair a bit softer? She steps forward and I shrug off these inconsistencies.

"You'll be here when we get back, unless you plan on running off again."

I start to speak but pause-running off again? A half-memory catches me: Jean on the couch next to her boyfriend, her gaze flickering to me in the doorway. And then away. Jean saw me leave. She could have said goodbye. If she wanted.

But I can see Scott at the edge of my vision, so I smirk, make my voice a little throatier. It's almost a reflex. "Oh, I could probably think of a few reasons to stick around." I sniff the air appreciatively. Anger from Cyclops, lust from Dr. Grey. Not bad. That's a much better perfume. Wish I could bottle it.

"Find what you were looking for, Logan?"

"More or less," I tell him. Never mind that it was heavy on the less side. The door opens behind us, and the children from outside file in.

"I'll see you boys later," Jean says. And her voice can get throaty too. She's lit the fuse and left us to blow on the flame. She walks away, pauses to kiss Scott. On the cheek. He tells Jean to be safe and she glances back at me before leaving, tight, knowing smile on her lips.

"See ya."

It's wonderful how expressive Cyke's face can be, even with his eyes covered. I bet he's just itching to take off those glasses, just for a moment. I wonder if I could take it.

"Aren't you gonna welcome me home?"

Oh yeah. That's the stink eye. He can't do anything, with the little kids behind me. And it's killing him. I reach in to my jacket pocket, luxuriously pull out the keys to the motorcycle. "Your bike needs gas."

His jaw drops a little, then tightens. "Then *fill her up*." Throws them back. The keys sting as they hit my palm,and I'm smiling for the tenth time that day. A record.

As One-Eye stomps down the hall, a flash of brown hair and denim goes by me, the patter of small feet on wood. "Mr. Summers! Mr. Summers! I'm an Octopus!"

Xavier's not in his office. My second guess is that big round room he's so fond of, and the student I ask confirms it.

Cerebro still has that cold, sterile atmosphere. If it weren't for the Professor, the place wouldn't smell like anything at all. And that's rare. Believe me.

"My tolerance for your smoking not withstanding," Chuck says without turning around, "Smoke that in here and you'll spend the rest of your days under the belief that you are a six-year-old girl." His voice is flat. I'm not sure if he's joking or not.

"Can you do that?" Forgive me for being a little wary of people messing with my mind.

"I'll have Jean braid your hair...Welcome back."

The steel doors *ding* behind be and begin to close. I look around. Don't suppose he'd be happy if I ground out the cigar on the walkway.

The cigar's tip send a thousand shards of pain through my nerves, pressed squarely in the center of my palm. It's a unique feeling, which is one step away from pleasure in my world.

"You want me to leave?"

"No. Just don't move."

I've never been inside this room when Xavier does his little magic trick. Gotta say, it's a little impressive. If I couldn't feel the walkway beneath my boots, I'd be dizzy. A thousand lights with no light bulb, and the walls seem to disappear. This must be how those astronauts feel in space.

"These lights represent every living person on the planet," begins Xavier in his best teaching voice. "The white lights are the humans.....and these are the mutants. Through Cerebro I'm connected to them, and they to me." Millions of red lights. Millions of millions. Equal to the humans.

"You see, Logan? We're not as alone as you think."

They were kind, simple words. But with that one sentence, I'm absolutely, positively certain Chuck *knows*. And I'm reminded why I'm here today. He knows what I found, or didn't find up there in Canada. But the question is, did Chuck have that knowledge before or after I stepped in this room?

"I found the base at Alkali Lake. There was nothing there." I'm proud of myself. My tone doesn't sound the least bit accusing. "I need you to read my mind again."

"Logan-the results will be the same as before."

"We had a deal." If I keep to the business side of the argument, maybe the anger won't leak out. Maybe my claws will stop itching.

"The mind is not a box that can simply be unlocked. It's a beehive with a million-"

"Spare me the lecture." Or maybe not. I can feel frustration, like the embers from that cigar, rising up.

His voice is appeasing now. "I have no idea that your amnesia, your adamantium skeleton, the claws are all somehow connected, but...Logan, sometimes the mind needs to discover things for itself..I promise you we'll talk again when I return...Oh, if you would be so kind to watch over the children tonight. Scott and I are going to visit an old friend." Chuck's face looks truthful; I don't smell a lie. Why then do I feel like The Professor is ducking away from me?

It's late in the evening before I see Marie again. I'm taking my clothes out of my backpack- putting some in the green hamper, others in the drawers. This is a different room than last time. It has a wide window, larger bathroom. I think this is one of the teachers quarters. A sort of Join-Our-Team-Get-The-Big-Bed approach.

I hear her before I smell her, smell her before I see her. Soft, hesitant footsteps on the rug outside. A quick knock on the already open door. Coconut shampoo and chocolate icing scent. Her shy smile, not so cheeky now.

"Hey, Logan. You busy?"

"No kid. 'Course not."

I keep folding shirts, mostly for something to do with my hands. But I watch her. (Her shoulder looks okay, not particularly sore.) Marie steps lightly, carefully into the room, like crossing some invisible border. She comes to stand by the dresser, leaning against it.

"I didn't get to thank you for all that stuff you sent. The jacket and the postcard and the glasses and thing. They were really great, and nice of you." Her tongue still has that Southern heaviness.

I don't know the word that won't make me sound like a pansy. I wanted to hear that she enjoyed the gifts, but now I don't know what to say. I'm not used to being thanked.

"I'm glad, kid." Another pair of jeans in the drawer.

Marie's lips twitch. She really does look better, happier. She smiles alot. I wonder if that's the effect of the school, or joy at me being here. I don't know which answer I'm hoping for.

That's a lie.

I do.

"Did...those errands up North...how'd it go?"

I look at her quickly. Not smiling now. Little furrow between her eyes, slight scent of concern.

"Dead end." Her shoulders droop. "Nothing for you to worry about, Marie."

"I'm sorry, Logan." Voice so quiet.

"It's alright." And right now, I start to think that may be - could be true.

Marie bites her lip, looks down and begins fumbling with her glove. I don't understand until I see the chain unravelling. She's kept it wrapped around her wrist.

"Here," she says, and holds out the tags. "These are yours."

I look at them in her fingers, think about the metal being pressed against her flesh for months. My past. That's what she's trying to give me.

"Keep them," I tell her.


	5. Covalent: Bond By Sharing

Covalent: Bond By Sharing

The clink of metal on metal, fans or machines buzzing. A small beaded chain jangling in someone's hand.

(*...read my mind again-the results will be the same as before...*)

Fuzzy green light, flickering images I've seen a hundred times but don't recognize. The world is tilting back and forth, visions blending in front of me and then disappearing. I can only discern a few semi-tangible pictures before they are swallowed by blackness.

A pair of glasses, green eyes, scruffy beard. (*...you'll be indestructible-no memory-sometimes the mind needs to discover things for itself...*)

A tank large enough to hold a man. Glass and steel. So cold. I'm so cold.

(*...wolverine-he'll be indestructible-you'll be indestructible....*)

Water. Everywhere. A rubber tube that keeps my throat muscles from contracting, but the mask has holes in it. Water seeping into my mouth. Can't swallow. Can't breathe.

(*...no memory...erase his memory....*)

So many eyes watching. Doing nothing. The sound of a drill. Pain. Can't escape. Can'tescapecan'tescapecan'tescape....

No steel beneath me, but cotton sheets and a mattress. Every single muscle in my body is clenched, but at least my claws didn't come out this time. My heartbeat is thundering, and I hear a rushing in my ears like waves hitting the beach. There's a terrible taste in my mouth.

I take in the room. The school. Xavier's. I make the connection pretty fast but there's still a moment when I don't know where I am or who I am. The window, white curtains blowing 'cause I left it open a crack. Covers, definitely cleaner than the one's I'm used to sleeping on, but now damp with my sweat. I try to calm myself with these solid, ordinary details but everything I see feels surreal, like this is the dream. The corners seem to sharp to be actual.

The perspiration is growing cold on my skin. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, center myself. Okay. It's okay.

I'm so glad Marie's not in here. Not this time.

The wood floor is cool beneath my bare feet. At night the mansion is so quiet-dark and soothing. I make a quick circuit of the halls. The motion helps me shake off the dream and I can feel of some use, checking on the students. I can hear snoring, sleepy murmuring, a radio in one room playing "Don't Laugh At Me" by Mark Wills. They're good kids. But I'm glad Chuck and Scooter will be back in the morning. I couldn't the lot of them all day. They'd kill me.

From the living room(Or one of them. This place is fucking huge.) I hear a heart beat and the sound of a T.V.

He's about ten years old and wears glasses with tape circling the bridge. He has one of the loneliest scents I've come across,and seeing how I spend the majority of my time around Canadian bars, that's saying something. I don't know why it's such a strange sight, that boy sitting there by himself with the television's glow illuminating his face like blue fire. The channels are changing- a soap opera, a 1960's action film, a girl in a miniskirt who wants me to change my phone plan, a sitcom. A minute passes before I realize there's no remote in the child's hand.

"Can't sleep?" His voice sounds old, and he doesn't look at me.

"How can you tell?"

The kid turns. "Because your awake." I see a spiderweb of scars around his right eye and wonder what *his* story is.

"Right. How about you?"

"I don't sleep." Of course he doesn't. This is Xavier's.

"Mm. You want me to sit with you?"

"No."

Zero hesitancy in his voice, and I'm not one of the practised counselor/teacher/buddy-buddies here. I'm not one to force my presence on someone anyway.

"Alright then. G'night."

"Goodnight."

Marie's little boyfriend is in the kitchen. You can't mistake the aroma of that much hair gel. I tell myself not to go in. Don't do it. But there must be some super-charged refrigerator magnets in there, because I find my feet turning in that direction anyway.

Bobby's sitting at the blue counter, digging into a carton of vanilla ice cream. He's got this somber look on his face, like a bar patron nursing his whiskey.

"Doesn't *anyone* sleep around here?"

"Apparently not." Was that a dirty look? No. No, it wasn't. What is wrong with me? I feel so prickly, like I'm standing in the cage at the beginning of the night, listening to the announcer call for fighters. God, I need a drink.

"Got any beer?" I look in the fridge. It's stocked with everything in the world-from Swiss rolls ot crab meat and cracker snack trays...and fifty types of fruit. They've even got a fucking pineapple. But no Molson. Not even a Bud light.

"This is a *school*," Iceboy says pointedly, his nose wrinkling a little. Ladieeees and Gentleman, my I present our taker, the new Scoooottt Summers.

"So that's a no?"

"Yeah. That's a no."

"Got anything other than chocolate milk?" Or ice cream? I'm fighting so hard to keep the growl out of my voice. Somehow I believe I'm failing.

"There should be some soda in that small cupboard."

Soda. Lovely. At least it's not apple juice. Bet it's orange, with Scooby Doo on the front. Ah, Dr. Pepper.

I pop the cap off and turn back to Bobby, who's poking at his Haagen-Dazs. I think of the way he shook my hand, and after a little consideration, pass him the bottle. Might as well make him useful. He blows once and the glass is chilled, like it's been sitting in the freezer. Nifty.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

I sigh, take a seat on one of the stools. I should try to be polite to this kid. I really should. For Xavier's sake. And Marie's. But what to talk about? Hockey? No. He probably likes soccer. Car's? No. Probably thinks an SUV is a type of T.V. show. Shit.

"How long you been here?" When in doubt, always ask about the other person. Always. Unless you wanna debate the weather.

"Couple of years."

"And your parents just shipped you off to mutant school?" Maybe they got tired of skid marks in the dirty laundry. Shit! Stop it. Stop it. What's the matter with me?

"Actually, my parents think this is a prep school." There. You're supposed to feel sorry for him. So go on....But at least he's never been so unfortunate that hiding in somebody's trailer seemed like a good idea, with an empty stomach and a thin cloak.

"I see," I nod, take a sip of my Dr. Pepper. "Well, I suppose a lot of prep schools have their own dorms, campuses..."

"Jets," Bobby adds. Good Point. This school does have that special touch.

It's quiet in the kitchen. I can hear crickets chirping, but that doesn't mean the silence is awkward. The window is open.

I think of the way he interrupted Marie when she was introducing him, Did Iceboy think she would call him something other than boyfriend? Does he know she keeps my tags under her gloves? Not that it matters to me. Not that that's especially significant. But Jean said Marie was taken with me. She did say that.

"So you and Rogue, huh?" Damn. Almost said 'Marie". I bet this boy doesn't know her real name. I bet he doesn't.

"Yeah," he says.

(**we're still working on that-the way he grabbed her arm-we're still working on that**)

"I mean, it's not what you think." It better not be, Icesickle. Cuz' what I'm thinking ain't nice. And I promised to look after that girl. "I'd like it to be, but it's just...."

He smells sad, and frustrated. "It's just that it's not easy when you wanna be closer to somebody...but you can't."

For a moment, I feel real sympathy for him. Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe he really likes Marie. Maybe he won't hurt her.

Or maybe Bobby's just a horny teenager.

...I *could* get him a hooker. Yeah. It might keep him from hounding her. Huh...

"I've seen the way you look at Dr. Grey."

What?

*What?*

"Excuse me?" I ask him.

"Nothin'," he says, backtracking pretty fast, sensing he's crossed some line. Bobby looks down at his ice cream shyly, or slyly. The boy understands he's gotten a punch in. A good one.

My jaw clenches.

"Better get to bed, Iceman. Now. Ya got school tomorrow."

He may have recognized something in my tone, cuz Bobby's off that chair like someone lit the cushion on fire. He puts the ice cream in the freezer, tosses the spoon in the sink.

"Good night," Iceboy tells me.

"Uh-huh."

Then I'm alone in the kitchen, listening to his rather hurried footsteps on the stairs.

Jesus.

These chairs in Chuck's office squeak every time I move. Stiff leather. I hate that sound. You'd think Wheels could afford chairs a bit more comfortable.

"Logan, I want to help you. You must believe that."

The light coming through the window glints off Chuck's forehead. I have a feeling that if the windows were placed any higher, or if his head was any smoother, I just might be able to see my reflection.

"But you have to understand, Logan, the brain is not a single-dimensional map drawn by a toddler. It is a vast, three dimensional structure-much like this mansion. And what you are asking me to do is to tell you whats in the basement while I'm standing in the fourth-floor closet."

I wonder how long it took him to come up with that metaphor. Do those things come naturally for him, or is it because of all the free time he has, stuck in that wheelchair? "So it was bullshit. Everything you said."

"Logan...."

He's been saying my name alot. I wonder if he got that tool from one of his psychology books. Trying to make a connection with me. Are you reading my mind now, Chuck? Well, Fuck You.

"Logan, I did not lie to you. Not when we first met, and not today. I am certain we can recover your memories. We can work together."

There are three clocks in this room. One on the wall, a digital on his desk, and a wristwatch(guess where that one is). I wonder why he needs three. They're all ticking the seconds away, twenty minutes I've been sitting here. This conversation is going exactly how I predicted. I feel like we're reading a script.

"As we do so, I hope you will accept a place in the school, in the mansion. I can offer you a life here that is-"

"Lemme guess, *Professor*, that's all closely tied to a leather suit with an X printed on it?"

Chuck pretends to look indignant for a moment, but he can't keep it up for long. Besides, special senses, remember?

"Well, yes, Logan. I won't say that I do not hope you will join us. You could make a huge difference in the lives of countless mutants and-"

"Hey. Professor." He's one step from pulling out the brochures.

Xavier sighs. His shoulders actually slump. "But nobody will force you, Logan. You can stay here, for as long as you'd like. Perhaps assist the students, help around the mansion..."

"Yeah, yeah, Chuck. We'll see. I gotta go."

Another sigh, and I stand up-there! If I angle my head to the right I can almost,almost see my reflection.

"Alright, Logan. Once again, thank you for watching over the children last night. And welcome back. I'm sure I'm not the only one happy to see you here again."

I take my beer out to the terrace, because it's peaceful out there and I don't feel like sitting in my room. Ororo said Xavier wouldn't take kindly to a 'blatant display of intoxicants'. I don't know why I care.

The *clish* sound the Molson's lid makes is almost musical. Completely worth the eight miles I had to drive to find the brand in a gas station. Of course, Summers might not agree if he knew I took his bike again. It's his fault. Shoulda put a better lock on that gate.

The taste of that first gulp is enough to make me close my eyes in pleasure. I'm not an alcoholic, I'm just drunkenly inclined. With my healing factor, the buzz only lasts a few minutes anyway(constant intake is the key). It helps calm the Wolverine and slow down my thoughts-take my mind off Scott and Jean kissing by Chuck's office, how Jean grinned at me over Cyke's shoulder...

I'm so engrossed in the Canadian goodness of the drink that I almost don't see Marie. A marvel in itself.

She's sitting on one of the stone benches, legs crossed underneath her. Marie's hair is braided, white mixing with the brown. All her attention is focused on the book in her hands, the spine of which reads "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn", and she doesn't notice me. Her face is only a few inches from the page.

"Good book, Kid?"

It takes her a moment to pull herself out of the novel, and when she does Marie's eyes show an irritation that quickly fades. And her smile is bright and unguarded.

"It's the best. I reread it every year."

"You want me to leave you to it, then?"

She shakes her head. Even her eyes smile. "I already know what happens."

I sit down beside her, taking a swig of beer. Marie's eyes follow the curve of my arm, then move down my throat. I swallow a little harder than necessary.

"So you like this school?" It's not exactly small talk. I really want to know.

Marie nods-was there a bit of hesitation there? "Yeah. Yes, it's alright. I've got a lot of friends."

"And a boyfriend." I can't resist. That word is hard to say with a straight face. Her cheeks turn pink, and bizarrely my heart picks up speed with the deepening shade.

"Bobby's nice, Logan."

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen."

"Kid, no boys are nice at seventeen."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You should." I'm dead serious, but her lips are twitching. Full lips. Pink, but she doesn't wear lipstick. Perhaps it's because she bites them. They're nice. But of course I'm only speaking from a professional standpoint, being somewhat a connoisseur of female body parts by now.

Marie has noticed me staring, and squirms. A scent reaches my nose that I can not and would not describe to anyone, ever- some things are private, you know? -one that would make a lesser man shiver. I clear my throat. Twice.

"So..Ah..Ororo mentioned you've been having lessons with the Professor? To control your gift?" I wonder if her meetings have gone any better than mine.

Oh. Wow. That grin sure disappeared quickly.

"Yes." Marie confirms unhappily, "But nothing has happened yet. Still poisonous."

"Hey-hey." She won't meet my eyes. "You'll learn to control it. You will. Hey, look at me. Now. You're not poisonous, Rogue. Never have been."

Her fingers play with the edge of her gloves. I have a feeling she doesn't want to argue with me.

There are words people say during moment like these, phrases that are heartfelt and sugary and can magically fix a situation. Unfortunately, none of those are in my dictionary. I would have to take a look in Scott's library. As it is, the best I can do is wrap my arm around Marie's shoulder and draw her close-for the fourth time since we've met. I kiss the top of her head and tell Marie the truth, the only thing that comes to my mind.

"I think you're perfect, Kid."

I hear her draw in a breath, but before she can speak a voice cuts in from behind us.

"Yo. Rogue."

She pulls away from me.

There's a boy, standing by the sliding door, with a sneer on his face and a lighter in his hands.

"Dr. Grey says to be in the garage ready in ten minutes if you're going to the mall. Bobby's waiting for you in the lounge. Coming?" His eyes go to me with insolent curiosity. I could snap him over my knee, he's so thin.

"Yes, I'll be right there, John. I just need to grab a scarf."

Marie looks back at me, a little regretfully, a little uncertain. "Are you...gonna be here later?"

I shrug, smile at her. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll stick around awhile."


	6. Eclipse: What Is Hidden

Eclipse: What is Hidden

Deja-vu is one of the many side effects of living in one place for an extended period of time. It's been a week since I pulled up the drive on that pilfered motorcycle,and I find myself walking around the mansion once again, trying to shake off another nightmare. The poor sleep is nothing new, but usually I stay in bed and count the dots on the ceiling panels(four thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine, if you're interested). Tonight's was worse than usual. I'll have to buy Chuck a new headboard.

The professor and all the other x-geeks are here tonight, safely tucked in their respective beds, but I check the place any way, the windows and halls. You never know what could happen. I pause outside each student's door, listening for anything less tranquil than the usual sleep-sounds. I try hard, but can't explain to myself why this is necessary, only that I feel more settled inside when it's done.

I knew she wasn't asleep, and I knew she wasn't in her room. The girl's dorms are on the second floor, and though that space is pungent with hairspray and body splash and other horrifying items capable of turning my stomach, it's easy to pick out Marie's room. It's in the left hall, and the lower end and separated from the others by an empty room- whether by choice, design or coincidence I do not know. I smell a dozen Marie Scents, but no Marie. With alarm, I'm reminded of the last time the Kid couldn't be found where she was supposed to be. It didn't end well. Concern shoots off fireworks in my system, each spark kindling a new flame, but I don't move. Close my eyes and inhale deeply, listen with the skill that comes only from practice and the X-gene. Heart beats...bodies on mattresses...cell phones...snores...radios...clocks...insects(even a mansion can't keep them all out).... the air conditioner....electricity in the walls....hum of refrigerators....a fish tank....T.V(Blinky must really run up the bill)....a heart beat, and then a second one, and the rustle of pages. There. I exhale.

The library is next to the cafeteria, and is smaller than the entertainment rooms. I've never been in here before. The books are crammed inside each mahogany case, some with shiny new covers, others tattered cloth. I honestly can't tell the novels from the educational. Although the smell of paper appeals to me, I'm not much of a reader. Marie is, apparently. I find her curled up in a stuffed armchair near the back of the room. She's wearing a black nightdress-modest, but I've never seen so much skin, her skin. It's pale, and beautiful.

Marie sees me immediately this time. Her face looks to tired to be surprised, framed by unbrushed hair.

"Hi."

Hi, Logan."

"It's two o'clock in the morning. Something wrong, Kid?"

"Not really."

Not a chance in hell she could get away with that answer. I raise my eyebrow at Marie, and frown. Body language is 80% of communication, after all.

"I just had a bad dream. Couldn't get back to sleep." She says it almost defensively, as if accustomed to someone belittling that statement.

"That happen alot?"

Her slim shoulders lift, then fall. She's not wearing any gloves and the silver of my chain stands out against her wrist, glittering. "Sometimes."

"You wanna...uh...talk about it?" Jesus. I've never said that before. So glad Scott didn't hear me. Or anyone, for that matter. Marie gives me a dry smile, and I'm sure the uniqueness of the offer hasn't escaped her either.

"Do you want to talk about *your's*?"

"Not particularly."

"What a coincidence. Neither do I."

"Fair enough," I reply, taking a seat in the other armchair (much more comfortable than the one in Chuck's office). I lean back, but can't help staring at the bluish tinge beneath her eyes, and wondering about that word, 'sometimes'. Is something bothering her? Iceboy? Worse than him? Is she sick? Is she gonna get sick? Can I make her tell me? How?

It's only then, and you'll pardon me if my attention was directed elsewhere, that I notice Marie is not holding a book this time, but a piece of paper.

"What's that?", I inquire.

"The sign up sheet. Criteria list."

"Sign up for what?" In my head I'm trying to get back on the subject of why she isn't sleeping.

"Training, for the junior team." Marie says, with an air of casualness that's a tad forced.

"What's-", I start to ask. Then it clicks. And my next words may have been hard to understand through the biting snarl they come out in. " **For the X-men?**"

"Yes, well-" My sensitive ears miss what that southern drawl is saying. I'm overcome by a barrage of unwanted images: Marie in the X-suit - that suit torn and leaking blood - Marie getting knocked around - Marie with bruises - Marie with broken bones.

*(...the statue of liberty...so cold...no heart beat...so cold...)*

I'm so angry, it's all I can do not to march upstairs now and drag Xavier out of bed. Th temptation to whup his shiny-skulled ass is great. That bastard. That rat bastard. Putting *her* in danger.

"You're not doing it." Simple. Firm.

"Logan-"

Do I smell relief?

I don't want to hear her arguments.

"You're too young."

*(...no heartbeat....her damn skin....no heart beat...god....)*

"I'm seventeen. Scott's going to sign my permission slip himself."

Scott. Gonna kill him. Oh, I'm gonna *kill* him. "I don't care about a fucking permission slip, Kid. It isn't safe."

That wasn't yelling. It wasn't.

*(...the statue...her skin...)*

Her lips are half-pouty, her face indignant. But I was right. I do smell a hint of relief behind that expression. I make an attempt to soften my voice. "Marie, why would you want to join?"

She's bites at her lower lip, throws up her hands in exasperation, as if I'm missing the tree in a picture of the Amazon. "Because look at all of this, Logan!" She gestures around at the library. "Look at all I've got because of that team! A home, food, clothes, an education. Why wouldn't I repay them however I could?" At least Marie didn't try to tell me it was 'cus she wanted to unite mutant and humankind.

My hands are shaking. But when I speak, my voice is steady. Quiet. "You don't owe them that, Kid."

"I do. The Professor has been doing his best to help me control my skin. He takes time out of his busy schedule just to work with me. I can't keep staying here without contributing something-"

"Did somebody tell you that?" She sounds like she's reciting words off a page. There's a flicker in Marie's eyes.

"No-o. But-"

"Listen to me, Marie. Closely. You deserve every single bit of this life here, without having to give up your's to Chucks little club. I don't know who's been feeding you that other bullshit, and I don't care."

Her cheeks are flushed, but almost happy. Marie means everything she says, I have no doubt. But I get the feeling she's eager to be talked out of it. In a soft voice, Marie tells me, "But I want to be useful. I don't want to be weak."

"Don't gotta join the X-team to be strong, Kid."

"What else can I do? With my skin-"

"Do not make this decision just 'cus of you're mutation, Marie. If you...." The next words are so difficult to force out, not least because I'm lying. "If you really want this, go ahead. But not because you think you have no other options."

Marie hesitates, then nods. "Okay."

I relax. She looks down at that sign-up sheet for the longest time. But perhaps it only felt that way. Then, in a simple motion that would make me dance with joy if I were prone to such displays, Marie tore the paper in half. Some of the cloud that shadowed her brown eyes dispels, and I shove away the briefest suspicion that it was me doing the pressuring. Her smile matches my own.

It's so quiet. If it weren't for the fact that I can hear the kid in the living room watching Family Guy, I could pretend we are the only people awake. Marie's not young enough for me to tell her to go to sleep and expect it to work. I can't imagine someone trying to give my that order. Besides, I know how it feels when the moon is out and your body's exhausted but distraction is the Maginot Line between you and insanity.

So I don't treat the Kid like a kid. I smirk instead, and ask if she knows how to play cards.

That was the first of many nights that I met downstairs. It became a ritual, though none were so dramatic as the first. I have never asked, but it seemed we were always awake at the same time. There was never a sleepless evening I could not find her in the library, or kitchen, or lounge. I'd never go as far as to claim I looked forward to the Nightmare Nights. They're as bad as ever, and if you heard the sound of that drill you would understand. But when I wake up it is easier to remember where I am, and I can shake off that horrible taste of chemical water.

We don't speak about it during the day...What would we say? But three or four times a week Marie and I sit together, playing cards or watching a movie or just talking. (I can't believe this kid doesn't know Texas Hold'em. She always wants to play something called 'Nerts' and I feel like a pansy each time we do.) Sometimes no words at all pass between us. I watch Marie as she reads, and it is the closest to relaxed The Wolverine ever gets. And when her eyes start blinking, so sleepy and goddamn adorable, we say goodnight and I walk Marie to her room.

"What the hell were you thinking?" I don't even bother sitting this time. I'm using all my strength just to keep that desk between Chuck and me.

"Logan, all older students are offered to train as junior xmen. Rogue is no different."

"She is different to me," I growl. I don't understand the look that crosses his face.

"I believe you are trying to impose you're personal reservations about the team on Rogue. She has the unique opportunity to choose a career that truly makes a difference in the world, and I am happy to offer that opportunity to any student-"

"Bullshit. You're using this school as a cheap labor source. How do you get people to join a cause? Make them depend on you, build up gratitude. Then threaten to take it all back. You make those kids feel ashamed to want anything other than to fight the good fight."

"Logan, I can absolutely assure you that has *never* been the case. I, nor any one has ever told a student they must become an Xman."

"But it's sure as hell implied." My hands won't seem to unclench. There's thunder in my chest. This is a rare experience, not swinging my fist when I'm this pissed. I can't stop hearing

*(...no heart beat....she's so cold...)*

Marie scream my name, that night on the statue. It's the soundtrack in my head and somebody's hit the repeat button. "You told me yourself, Professor. My first day here. Either they leave or stay, teach, *become and Xman*."

It's funny, Xavier's face turns a little purple when he's aggravated. Usually you only see that in alcoholics and chubby guys.

"I never intended those words to be taken that way. You know that...Of course, no one may stay on *indefinitely* without contributing a service." He looks at me pointedly, and I understand. A bell ringing in my head. I get it.

"She's too young. You didn't give those sign up sheets now because you wanted them. You don't need Rogue, or her gift." A nauseating question rises in the back of my mind, a thought I don't wish to express about Marie's meetings with Chuck and her lack of progress. "Using her mutation hurts Rogue as much as whoever she's touched. You want me."

I went into Xavier's office wanting to stretch my lungs and practice my swearing. I left with the agreement to take over half of the junior team's training and to give Ororo my measurements for the X-suit. All with the condition, of course, that Marie would never see a mission.

I don't know how it happened.

He suggested Marie attend the combat classes, and I think that's a good idea. She should know how to protect herself.

Jean teaches science. And math, but it's the former I'm interested in because that classroom has windows. And those windows look out on the terrace. And from the bench where I sit on that terrace, I have an absolutely extraordinary view of Dr. Grey's breasts. Thank God(if there is one who smiles on Mutants) for clingy red sweaters. They may be a tad low cut for standing in front of teenagers, but you won't catch me complaining.

Marie's not in the class-she's in the music room with a skinny blue guy Chuck just hired. But through the glass I can see Icesickle, a boy with ears the size of my hands, that kid-John, I think, and a mousy-face girl who raises her hand frequently and smiles at Bobby every few seconds. I listen to Jean describe something called stochiometry, whatever the hell that is, and amuse myself by imagining various demonstrations of karma sutra. I wonder if Jean prefers Kshudgaga of Avamardana? Whenever the doctor looks out at me she blushes, and I'm guessing Jean's telepathy has improved.

The bell rings at 11:30, on the dot, a shrill jangling reaching a degree of annoying I cannot begin to describe. I am so damn sick of that bell. It's possible the intercom will receive a new set of claw marks tonight. I'm not the only one it hurts-inside, Dumbo flinches. Yeah. Breaking the speakers would be beneficial to all.

Jean glances at me from beneath mascara-coated eye lashes, then disappears through the classroom door. A moment later she's on the terrace with me, five feet six inches of tight abs, red hair, and perfume. It's as natural for me to put on a smirk now as it is to wear shoes.

"Logan," she greets me.

"Dr. Grey."

Jean's eyes go to my drink, then back up to me repeatedly, lips pursed. Does she want a sip? "Please tell me that isn't your lunch, Logan." Oh.

"Nope." I take another gulp. "Appetizer. Rest of the case is in my room."

She lifts a delicate, plucked eyebrow. She can't do it like me, but it's still fairly sexy. "Well, I hope you'll have something a little more filling for dinner."

I almost let it pass. Almost. "Well, there's always you." I let my throat rumble a little. "I can prove my eating habits are just fine."

Green eyes sparkle with amusement. Less than a foot of space between us. "I'm afraid I've already got plans for lunch with Scott."

"Hell, darlin, Cyclops doesn't know how to lick a plate."

"In a *restaurant*, Logan."

"Kinky." Jean frowns, a token effort to appear scandalized. But the scent rising to my nose and the way she's swaying, almost imperceptibly closer can't lie.

"C'mon. I could show you a few things Scotty only thinks about when he's alone in the shower."

Her lips twitch. I want her. I want her. "Why would I ever leave him alone in the shower?"

Oh. My. God. If only the image in my head didn't include a naked Summers.

It's the longest we've ever spoken to each other, and the most explicit. I love the way her cheeks glow, even if I can see every particle of makeup she uses. This is fun. Any moment now Jean will declare her undying love for me, apologize for turning me down four months ago, and we will proceed to have rabid wolverine sex on the this stone bench....or maybe the entertainment room. Marie reads on this bench.

But Jean's expression turns a bit more serious and hey-hey, she's stepping back.

"I love him."

It's odd. All my senses, and I can't tell if Dr. Grey is lying or not. "Do you?"

The grin she gives me is bitter, apologetic.

"Girls flirt with the dangerous guys, Logan. They don't take him home. They...marry the good guy."

I take a moment to try to figure out why that stings so much. But it does. She could have slapped me on the face and it would have hurt less.

"I could be the good guy." I could. I could. I am.

Not so apologetic now. Jean speaks like I'm one of her students, lecturing and gentle. But a little self-satisfied as well. "Logan, the good guy sticks around."

Hey-hey, that's not fair. How did this go from being so fun to this? My brain is bubbling with the knowledge that she is putting into words things I've never quite allowed myself to think.

"Jean..." I'm here, aren't I? I am a good guy. Going to Alkali Lake was for my past...it wasn't...she has no right.... No phrases come to my mind to describe the truth I can feel but cannot speak. I take a step closer to her, wanting the familiar, the physical I can understand.

"Please. Please don't make me do this."

I put a hand lightly on her waist, lean close enough to taste her breathe. Smells like oranges.

"Do what?"

"This." Jean breaks away from me, her high-heels clipping across the stone floor, hips sashaying. She leaves me confused and pained, like a dog who's been kicked without knowing why. And I wonder when this stopped being a game.


	7. Constellations:Connecting The Dots

Constellations: Connecting The Dots

These kids don't know shit about fighting. . Zilch. Zero. *Nothing*.

I spend half an hour watching my assigned group shove each other playfully. A headache is building between my eyes: because it's ten o'clock in the morning; because Molson wasn't enough to get Jean's words out of my head; because 'bringing in the big guns' in this case means two bottles of scotch and one of tequila; because that's a little daunting even for my healing factor-and do these lights really need to be so bright? Because I see it's going to take me months for these kids to unlearn everything that pansy Cyclops taught them about self defense.

The reason I'm doing this is across the room, right now standing by a girl decked out in yellow. I can't remember her name, but she reeks of bubblegum. Marie peeps over at me every now and then, looking concerned. Perhaps because of the huge snarl I'm wearing, but maybe it's something else. I'm trying not to glare at the kids, who seem to be miming some terrible boxing film, but it's impossible.

I heave a sigh. "Alright, enough. Enough. Come.....gather 'round."

It's strange; when I came back I'd imagined each day would stand out, that the blending effect wouldn't take place here as it had on the road. Understandable, considering the extraordinary events of my first visit. But I was wrong. You can get used to anything-homelessness or a mansion. And, for better or worse, it's not long before I fall into a routine here.

I wake up and remind myself where I am. I, the fucking *Wolverine* am living at a school where one out of ten students can teleport. Golly, let's not forget I'm a *teacher* at this school. Had anyone shared this mind-numbing fact with me a year ago, I would have told them to piss off and stop reading Harry Potter.

I have breakfast in the kitchen-or in the cafeteria if I'm in the mood to sit with Scott and hear Jean ask if I'm *really* gonna eat all that. Then I spend an hour trying to remember why hitting a child is wrong. Thank god I only have one group. I've got Healing, but Ororo and the others must have something special added to their X-gene,. They teach about five classes a day.

In the afternoon I spend a few hours in the garage, go for a ride on the bike, or watch football in the lounge. Economically, any of the previously mentioned activities can be done while pissing off Scott.

Depending on my level of irritability, I go out in the evening and find a bar, a woman, a fight. Not necessarily in that order. And then, of course, there's the occasional mission. The break in my own personal brand of monotony is almost worth how the X-Suit chaffs my crotch.

I measure my days by conversations with Marie, by the number of times Cyclops's face turns purple, by instances I do not growl at a student. So I would be surprised, if you told me I'd been at Xavier's two months and counting. A record.

"Pyro, what did I tell you? Put the fucking lighter away. We're not using weapons or powers right now."

"You said to use whatever's available."

Oh, this kid is really starting to piss me off. I hate the way his upper lip curls. "Give me the lighter." Little Johnny wants to argue, clenching tat piece of metal like it's his favorite Baabaa. That's fine. He can keep his toy, and we can do some one-on-one training. I bare my teeth, and Pyro changes his mind. He's got balls, but he also has a brain. The lighter goes in my pocket. "Now it ain't available."

All around me, pairs of students are facing off. It's so hard to watch them all at once. The moment I fix one kid's mistake, there's someone else pulling a dumbass mistake.

"Jaime, if you can't pick yourself off the ground faster, stop aiming your kicks above the waist. This isn't a movie. You will land on your ass."

The hardest thing to teach them is dirty fighting. Not through any hesitance on my part. That damn Summers had them convinced that being honorable, assuming all the niceties short of doing the enemy's laundry while you fight, would mean you're opponent will do the same. Complete bullshit. No wonder Xavier has only a few team members now. How many have died because of that Lets-Hold-Hands-And-Pick-Daisies curriculum?

"You gotta keep on hitting until your enemy stops hitting you. The best strategy is to put 'em down fast. Strike upward, hit 'em below the jaw."

Marie's doing well. She's partnered with that Asian girl, Jubilee-both wearing long sleeves and gloves to prevent any accidental skin contact. She wears too much sparkly lotion, and says 'like' every other word, but I'm glad it's her working with Marie. I get a little...tense...when I see her go up against other, larger kids. Especially the boys. It's just....they don't know what they're doing. Things could get too heated, and she could be hurt. Really hurt. Bobby is in Scott's class. Thank god.

"Rogue, stop hesitating. I don't give a rats ass if Jubilee's your best friend or your favorite aunt-stop pulling back. She ain't your friend right now. She's just a bunch of body parts you can kick or punch or break."

"Like, th-thanks Mr. Logan. I feel,like, totally appreciated."

"Shut up and focus, Yellow."

I've got about thirty students in this class. I work with half of them individually every day. Scott complains that they leave the gym limping and exhausted. There was an obvious Jean joke there, but I bit my tongue. Maybe it'll occur to him later.

"Logan."

"Mmmh?"

"You should read this."

"Schindler's List? We watched that movie last week, Kid."

"I know, but this...it's really good. You'd like it. There's this part I can't get out of my head."

"Go on."

"What?"

"Tell me. You're twitching."

"I'm not...But....there is this part...This leader, of the Jewish ghetto, is told to make a list. A thousand people to ship to the death camps. And he put himself, his wife, and daughter at the top of the list."

"Why?"

"To save three people. It's just....it's just one sentence in the book, but I can't stop thinking about it."

"Huh." Marie gets this look on her face, sort of awed, when she's talking about a book. Her eyes go real big an' serious-like she's looking off the top of a mountain and wants you to come see the view as well. I can't say I've ever felt that way about a story, but she makes me want to.

"Have you filled in the grades for your students?"

"No."

"Do you intend to?"

"No."

"Are you going to stop working on that engine while we talk?"

"No."

Jean sighs. "Logan, the professor gave you an office for a reason."

"He can have it back."

"But he wants you to do the paperwork. It comes with the position!"

"The position is makin' sure those kids don't pee themselves the first time they get in a real fight. If Chuck wants his little forms, he can fill them out himself."

"Logan, if you are...if you are having trouble using the computer, I can help you out, explain it to you."

I glace up from the car battery in my hands. How can Jean be so insulting and sexy at the same time?

"Logan." She pouts. "Are you angry with me?"

"No."

"You haven't spoken much to me lately."

"What do you want, Jean?"

"I just...hoped we could be friends."

Your lips say 'friends', darlin, but your scent says, 'wild fuckbuddies'. I'm really getting tired of being teased. "I don't wanna be your friend, Jean."

Doctor Grey looks sad, put-out. She reaches out a hand to place on my arm, but thinks better of it. Perhaps she doesn't want to encourage me, perhaps she doesn't want to get engine oil on her skin. "That's too bad, Logan."

I don't even watch her walk away this time."

"I look stupid. It's too big."

"Extra padding. It'll keep you safe."

"If I have to wear one, you have to wear one."

"I don't need a helmet, Kid."

"Oh, like you don't need a seat belt?"

"Do you want to go, or not?"

"Oh, would you look at the beautiful helmet! I've seen alot of over sized dorky helmets, but this must be the best. Thank you, Logan, thank you,"

"Shut the hell up. And hold on tight."

"This is amazing."

"Thought you'd like it."

"When did you find this place?"

"Last Tuesday. There's a spring about a half mile East. Not alotta fish, though."

"These trees must look real pretty in the fall. Do you think we'll see any deer?"

"-Hey, watch your step...If we do, we won't have to stop at sonic on the way home-ouch! That hurt."

"No it didn't."

"Fine, we'll still get you a cherry limeade. Help you wash down Bambi."

"You're ruining the moment."

"Kid, you keep hitting me, I'm gonna hit back."

"No you won't.....Logan!"

"I told you."

"You're back early."

"Am I?" She's braiding her hair with one hand. I've never seen anyone do that. You'd think her fingers would be hindered by those gloves, but they wind the strands nimbly. It's oddly hypnotic.

"You're usually gone Saturday nights."

"Didn't go to a bar."

Marie seems surprised, curious. "Why not?"

"Wasn't in the mood."

"So where'd you go?"

"Video store. Have you ever seen The Green Mile?"

"I've read the book."

Of course she has. "Of course you have. C'mon, you can do trig later."

"Come in."

I've never been inside Marie's room before. It's a smaller version of my own, but much cleaner. She doesn't have stuffed animals and Orlando Bloom posters like most girls. Some sketch books, a jewellery box, a back pack. Her favorite pair of gloves and a glass of water on the night stand. Four calenders on the wall-Marie says it's like redecorating every month.

She's lying on the bed-covers tangled as much as her hair, pale face and red nose.

"You weren't in class today."

"Ah'm sick," she tells me, needlessly. Her trash bag is overflowing with tissues, and her voice is thick in a way that can't be blamed on her accent. Marie doesn't get up, so I close the door behind me and sit down on the bed. She sighs.

My heart is banging. "How sick?," I demand. I can smell her fever. Why isn't she in the med lab? Can't she walk? Should I carry her, or run for Jean?

And of course, *(so cold....no heart beat...)*

"S'just da flu. Ah'm fine'd." Marie tries to grin,reassuringly, but sneezes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yah. Jean gave me suhm p-pills." I tell myself this relaxes me.

"Okay. Do you...ah...need anything else? Want me to get you some root beer?"

"Logan, why would Ah want root beer?"

"'Cus that's what people drink when they're sick."

"You mean ginger ale?"

I shrug. "Alright. Want me to get that?" I have no idea how to deal with illness. It's never been an issue before.

Marie gives me an indulgent pat on the leg. "No, tha-thanks. I'm just 'sleepy."

She curls up on her side, nuzzling the pillow.

I'm jittery, nervous of doing anything wrong. She wants to sleep, but it feels wrong to just leave her alone. Why isn't Jean her, looking after Marie? She's a fucking doctor.

"How long 'till you're better, Marie? Hey, Kid?"

"Mmm?"

"How long 'till those pills work?"

"Soon," Marie mumbles into her pillow.

"Okay. You wanna go for a ride later, when you're okay again?"

"Yah."

"Yeah? Yeah, okay. We'll do that soon. When you're better."

"Logan?"

"What, Kid?"

"Go 'way."

"Alright. Alright. I'll let you sleep, darlin'. You get some rest."

"G'bye Logan."

"Alright."

......."Mmmh?"

"You feeling any better now, Kid?"

"Mmmm....time 'hisit?"

"Ah...'bout twelve."

One of her brown eyes opens and stares out at me. "Logan, it's been forty-five minutes."

"You meant longer?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. Alright. I'll just...bring you some dinner later, huh?"

"Mmmmh...." I can't tell if that was a growl or a moan.

"Do you realize how many of your student's were sent to the med lav this week? Almost all of them!"

God. I can't even make a sandwich in peace.

"So?"

"So? *Jesus*." Scott runs a hand through his light brown hair, which, of course, falls back perfectly in place. I'll bet he gets it styled once a week, by a transvestite named Glinda or Davida. "I knew this was a bad idea. You can't be trusted around children-you can't even be trusted abound *people*."

"Excuse me, Dickhead?"

"You're supposed to be teaching them! Not treating them like a punching back you can vent your frustration out on."

"I *am* teaching them. The ones that had to go to the med lab were put there by their partners, not me."

"Oh! Well that's even better." OneEye snarls. "You're teaching them to hurt each other."

"Exactly!" I slam my fist on the table. The jar of mustard tips over, spilling yellow across the countertop. To his credit, Scott doesn't jump.

"Keep holding your student's hands. I don't give a shit what you do with them. But these-these are *mine*. And it's my job to make sure they can protect themselves in a *real* fight. If they're gonna join your so-called team they need to see the world as it really is. Not through those rose tinted glasses you wear." Pun intended.

"Fantastic. Let's turn them into animals. Like you."

His neck has turned an impressive plum color. I find myself breathing hard, shaking. My hands are balled up. Are my claws out? No. No.

"Scott?"

Jean appears, a gentle expression on her face, and touches her boyfriend's shoulder. She had to have heard us fighting- along with the whole first floor- but the doctor gives nothing away.

"Honey, we're gonna miss the reservation."

Cyclops gives me a final glare as he lets Jean pull him away, as if she were the only thing stopping him. I let him think so.

How did I get roped into this?

How the fuck did I get roped into this?

At least Chuck didn't make me wear a suit. I might have had to punch him. But that's the only silver lining I can find.

Jean looks nice.

Chuck says they do this every year- a 'pleasant formal event where the students unable to attend normal dances may socialize'. I think it's more for his benefit. Perhaps going too long without showing off his money makes him constipated. I wouldn't care, personally, if it weren't for those three obnoxious words: 'All Staff Required.'

The musics alternately too boring or too shrill. Certain members of the student body should never have been allowed a glass of champagne. Hell, kids who giggle that much shouldn't even be allowed out of their rooms.

A few of the girls keep peeking over at me. They're not in my class, otherwise they'd know I can hear every hormone-packed word being whispered. I reach my pinnacle of tolerance when the conversation shifts to, 'Who's got a spare cotex?'

I abandon the tables of punch, the cubes of cheese, and Summer's voice reminding the youngsters not to get too cuddly on the dance floor.

It's a surprise to find Marie on the terrace, but then again I don't remember seeing her inside.

Her dress is green, shimmery. It's made of some happy cross between silk and lace. I've never seen it, or that black jacket she's got on, before. It's....nice.

Marie's back is to me. She looks so still, leaning against the stone railing as if peacefully contemplating the grounds. Anyone else might've left her alone.

But anyone else wouldn't have notice the complete misery in her scent.

"Not havin' a good time?"

"Bout as much as you, I guess." That could be a smile, or an exhibit at the wobbly lip tournament.

"What's going on?"

Her fingers pluck at the tags-as ever dangling about her wrist. She never fails to wear them. And I never fail to notice. Her eyes, fixed on that chain, won't meet mine.

"Kid? Marie?"

"Logan...I...." She clears her throat. "There's something I should probably tell you...." Her voice is small.

"What?" I inquire, alarmed.

"Um....I...ah...heard that Scott...proposed to Jean...They're...gonna announce the engagement tonight. I thought you might wanna know...before"

"I glance back, through the glass door where Jean stands, talking and gossiping with Ororo. I wait for the pain, but I'm distracted by the tear slipping down Marie's cheek.

I'm confused. "Baby, is that why you're upset?"

Marie shakes her head. In an even tinier voice, she whispers,"Bobby and I broke up. I...I saw him kiss Kitty."

Ain't it strange, when your claws just pop out, without you meaning to? Well, I suppose you wouldn't know. I put them back in.

My first instinct, one so tempting I actually feel my legs start to move, is to find Iceprick right then. I want to, so bad. That cold merciless void has opened up-I could step into it and remove Bobby's intestines without a second thought. The only-and I mean the *only* thing that keeps me from crossing that line is the same thing that makes me wanna punish Bobby in the first place: the sight of Marie's shoulders, trembling with suppressed sobs. I can't abandon her.

With a couple of student watching us nosily from the hall, there's only one other option. Okay, there's probably more, but my thought process is a tad challenged at the moment.

"You wanna get out of here, Kid?"

We take one of the cars, rather than the bike. I don't know how long my flimsy 'Don't-Kill-Bobby' resolution would stand if I had to wait for her to put on pants.

Marie's sniffling, trying to stop her tears-quiet as they are. For a moment, she almost succeeds. She obtains a glassy sort of composure.

The type of calm that overtakes me when I'm truly, truly mad, is almost welcome. I drive aimlessly, without comment, as the story comes out.

Bobby had known Kitty before Marie had ever come to the mansion, but he'd said he didn't like her. They had most of they're classes together, including Scott's physical training-where the two would pore over records from previous missions. And when Kitty and Bobby weren't studying up to be proper little X-men, he would come to Marie. She says Bobby has a way of pressuring easily confused with friendliness. He'd inquire about her progress with the Professor, suggest Marie was dragging her feet and how would she know if she had control if she never touched someone? If she still was unable, maybe they could, you know, try a few things without skin contact. They'd tried kissing, but the pull had started.

Later, the steering wheel will show perfect impressions from my clenched fists.

And earlier this evening, she'd found them, Bobby eagerly sewn to Kitty's completely nonpoisonous lips by the fountain.

It's alright, though. I can't tell if Marie's talking to herself or me. It's alright. They were gonna break up eventually, she knew that. She was just....She was just a little....surprised. She just didn't think it would happen today.

We're parked at a lookout point, not far from a forest path I showed her a few months ago. Marie won't let me hold her, or cuss Iceprick out, or make promises-promises that she'd be okay, promise that he wouldn't. She makes shrugging motions every time I try, blinking rapidly.

Do I want to know the worst part, she asks with a small, heart breaking laugh. I give a stiff nod.

"Yesterday..Yesterday I found the switch. To my skin. I was gonna tell him tonight." And then her cool shatters, and I draw Marie against me as she bawls.

It's silent in the car when she finally stills. I'm torn between two confusing poles: the urge to roar, or whimper. Her damp cheek resting against my jacket, no Pyro to interrupt us this time, we watch the stars through the windshield. A thousand sparkling clusters. I'm wondering why the scent of her tears is more painful than a gunshot wound-perhaps because I have more experience with the latter.

"Do you...do yo want to see?", Marie asks, wiggling her fingers.

I wonder why it feels so natural for me to do this, comfort her, listen to her.

"Sure."

I wonder why I'm still here, not on the road.

I wonder why the thought of keeping this kid safe will make me suffer a hundred teenagers.

Marie sits up a little.

I wonder why I'm so protective. Never been that way before.

I wonder why the mere thought of her suffering makes me quake.

She takes hold of the stretchy fabric of her glove.

I wonder why I'd rather spend an hour with her and a deck of cards, than in the arms of a multi-talented blond in a high way bar.

With a tug, it slips off her fingers. Her palms are pale and delicate from always being covered.

I wonder what possessed me to tell Marie on that train I'd look out for her.

She offers me her hand, lips curving up just the slightest.

I wonder why it didn't hurt more to know Scott put a ring on Jean's finger. Game over.

I wonder why my claws haven't come out during my latest nightmares.

Our fingerprints connect, slide over each other.

I wonder why it makes me feel so warm to see my tags against her flesh.

Her skin is so soft. I look at Marie's face, pink cheeks and wide brown eyes that want to share her triumph with me.

I wonder why-

Oh.

*Oh.*


	8. Bouyancy: Sink or Float

_I'm so sorry for the slowness in updating-the Microsoft Word on my computer wasn't working! It was driving me crazy, but I finally managed to find a usable program._

_I'd like to thank all you kind reviewers- your feedback truly helps, and always makes me grin...and do my happy dance, thus frightening many small children and animals._

Buoyancy: Sink or Float

It was the most restless night I've ever spent. And that's fucking saying something, considering my track record. A witness would have said I belong in a padded cell. And maybe I do. I toss and turn, pace, growl, hit the walls(Xavier's gonna have to do some serious repairs), pop my claws-just for the clarity of pain. I want a drink, a dozen drinks-but I know if I leave now, I'll never come back here again.

That could be a good idea. After all, running has always been my first instinct and favorite standby.

"Aaaaaahh." I punch the wall again. The plaster cracks, showering the floor with dust and paint chips. I feel like I've betrayed myself. How the hell can I feel that way about....about *Marie*? *Marie*, for fucks sake. Aren't I supposed to be her friend? Her protector? Shit.

*(...I think she's a little taken with you....her smile..Marie....that very special woman scent....Marie....)*

No. No. Jesus, stop it. What is the matter with me? Do I have to screw everything that moves? Is that it? God. I'm a pervert, a bastard, a lech. Hell, a thousand names but they all add up to animal.

My inner Wolverine is amused. He doesn't understand why I'm making such a fuss.

"Age of Consent" and all the implications of those human words mean nothing to The Wolverine. *Look at you,* he growls. *Look at what you are. You could be a hundred, five hundred years old. And you're worried about a few little months on her part?* Marie is a woman, to him, has been a woman for years now.

*Not only that*, he says,* but she could be ours. She could be our-*

"No," I say out loud, furiously. I would plug my ears if that would help, if that voice wasn't my own. I did not think that word. I didn't.

*Mate.*

I tried to leave this mansion four times today.

The first time, I got as far as the doors. Bobby's voice reached my ears just as I was extending my hand to the doorknob. He was laughing. *Laughing*, and it's not really pertinent what it was at or who he was with. I couldn't leave just then.

The second try, I got to the stairs, and realized I hadn't grabbed a pack or any of my clothes. Damn. I just can't get my thoughts together.

The third time, I'd barely opened my door when Scooter appeared, screaming. (Rather unnecessary, considering how well aware he is about my hearing abilities.) Apparently you shouldn't tie a student to the wing of the Blackbird and threaten castration.

Iceboy's a little squealer.

I don't know why OneEye's getting so pissy-I didn't actually cut off his testicles. Those bruises will heal, and I didn't break any bones...well, his nose. But that doesn't count.

My fourth attempt, I actually reach the bike. My old friend. I'm so close, had straddled the seat and everything. If it didn't hurt so much I would congratulate myself.

Jean was wrong. The Good Guy doesn't stick around. The Good Guy Good Guy makes sure nothing in the world hurts the girl. Even himself.

*("Thank you, Logan." Marie murmers, wrapping her arms around my waist. "Thanks for being there for me.")*

I shut my eyes. Shit. Shit. Turn off the engine, stand up, return to my room quietly.

It'd be lying to say my thoughts in the garage were completely altruistic. There was an embarrassing voice within me demanding to know who I was going to watch movies with at two in the morning. Who, exactly, said this voice, was going to play that stupid Nerts with me?

Why does this have to be a bad thing? Wanting her? Lo-having feelings for her? I could take care of Marie. None of those immature brats would come near her again if I...

I suspect that's the Wolverine talking again.

*(Marie, naked....Marie, smiling up at me....Marie, mine.)*

A whimper passes through my lips. My stomach clenches and I bury my face in my palms-not because it's a bad fantasy. Because the opposite is true.

I sulk there for the rest of the day. Coming out would mean seeing Marie, and I'm terrified of what I'll feel, what I might say-or worse, do-if I look at her again.

Yeah. I'm hiding from a little girl.

"Loa, move those feet more. Piotr's big, but that doesn't mean you can't take him down."

I stay on the left side of the gym, my back firmly to Marie. I'm a poor imitation of the teacher I was Friday, twitching every time I hear her voice.

When the bell rings, I'm out of there, far ahead of the other students. I don't look back.

*(....breathe in...water, in my mouth, in my throat...clinking metal...high pitched drill...pain. pain....)*

I lay in bed, trembling. The sweat makes the covers stick to my chest. The sensitive spots between my knuckles, where the adamantium seared through the tissue, is buzzing. God.

That was a bad one.

I close my eyes, breathe through my nose. Previously, there would have been no question about my next move. Certainly, Marie will be heading downstairs, if she's not there already. We same to have the worst of our nightmares together.

But...I imagine spending the night with her. Trying to smirk. Trying to act normal. Looking at that skin her nightdress exposes, touchable-so touchable now...

I open my eyes again, stare up at the specks scattered across the ceiling panels. One dot. Two dots. Three dots. Four dots.

I'd have to say the Avoid-Marie Plan is not going so well.

You'd think it'd be easy in a mansion this size(five floors, three basement levels, and a stable) to elude one girl. But I swear she's *everywhere* I turn.

She's walking in the halls or reading on the terrace or sitting on the steps with Jubilee or stopping by the garage to see if I wanna take a ride ("Ahh...No, Kid. I've got some...stuff I gotta do.") or carrying files to one of the teachers or eating in the kitchen or watching TV and all the fucking while giving me that bewildered, heartbreakingly hopeful smile.

Shit.

Even when I *don't* run into The Kid, I'll catch one of her old scents and those thoughts...those dangerous thoughts I must be careful to shield from certain telepaths...sprout up again. I'm twitchy, aggravated, always keeping one eye open for Marie's footsteps. After only three days I'm a nervous wreck.

I...I *miss* her. How can I be there for Marie, while it's a struggle to be in the same room? How?

Five hundred thirty one...Inhale...Five hundred thirty two...Exhale...Five hundred thirty three...

I lay on the faux leather of the bench press press-muscles shifting and clenching under my sweaty flesh. Maximum number of weights as well as chains to the bar. You'd be hard pressed to find a person capable of doing this outside the circus, but I'm hardly struggling.

...Five hundred thirty six...Exhale...Five hundred thirty seven...Inhale...Five hundred thirty eight...

You could say I have a bit of excess energy to siphon off. Ask any man. He'll tell you where that comes from.

...Exhale...Five hundred thirty nine...Inhale...Five hundred forty...

The swish of those mechanical doors. Unmistakable. As cold and impersonal as the rest of these lower levels. Huh. Kinda like the Xmen themselves, despite all the warm furnishings on top.

Those footsteps are hard to miss as well, like that feminine scent.

Perfume.

...Exhale...Five hundred forty one...Inhale...Five hundred forty two...

New hairstyle-I can smell the spray. New pantsuit- trendy, tailored. New earrings-diamonds, and not the Walmart kind. You'd think with all the rest, Dr. Grey-soon to be Dr. Summers- would look at me differently as well. But no, her smile is as coquettish as ever, taking unsubtle pleasure at my shirtless state.

"It's not safe to bench press alone," she purrs in greeting, standing at the bass of the equipment.

...Exhale...Five hundred forty three...Inhale...

"It's safe for me."

Jean puts a hand on her hip, tilts her head. She looks cheerful, and I know Jean didn't wander in here without a reason.

I wish I could be interested.

...Five hundred forty four..Exhale...Five hundred forty five...Inhale....

"That's not setting a very good example, Logan." she says, though there are no students around. "If you like, I can spot you."

Her gaze slides lower.

It's strange. Before, her words-and the the sultry tone beneath them-would have lit something hot and quick within me.

...Five hundred forty six...Exhale...Five hundred forty seven...Inhale...

But I feel nothing.

"Thanks, darlin, but I'll pass."

Dr. Grey comes around the side of the bench and manages to sit on the thin strip of space available. Almost thoughtfully, she places a hand on my thigh. "Now, I don't think you really mean that."

....Five hundred forty eight...Exhale....

"I really do. Maybe you should go workout with Cyclops."

Her hand creeps up a little. From this angle I can see the tan, pasty line where her makeup ends. It goes around her throat and I can't believe she missed it.

Jean's voice is soft, honeyed. "I've got a lot of time to exercise with Scott. I don't see why you and I can't go for a stretch first."

I'm surprised by her forwardness-brought on by boredom, maybe, or loneliness, or any number of her own reasons. Hell, it could be basic horniness. Either way, I experience nothing but an indefinite irritation. You would think The Wolverine would notice, at least, the presence of a willing female. But he doesn't even stir. Stubborn bastard. He's got his mind set on....

...Inhale...Five hundred forty...Five hundred forty...what was I on?

Jean notices my most obvious sign of smell changes for just a moment, but her confident smirk doesn't falter.

"What's the matter, Logan?" she asks, mock hurt. "You don't want to work out with me?" Her fingers brush, then openly cup the flesh beneath my belt. "Are you sure?"

I'm dangerously aware of those long, manicured fingernails. I stiffen-though not in the way she hopes for. The Wolverine is certainly awake now. I growl low, place the weighted bar back in it's cradles, and sit up.

I shove away that hand. "Listen, Jean, I do not wantcha, 'Darlin. Leave me alone, alright?"

If he were anyone but OneEye, I'd feel bad for the guy who put the ring on that finger. But looking at the top-of-the-line clothes that definitely hadn't been with a school teacher in mind, I can only say that Scott got what he paid for.

Jean's expression isn't nearly so pleasant now, nor attractive. Her lips twist up. "Well, that wasn't quite your tune a few months ago, *Wolverine*," she snaps. Spite has a unique scent, and it's stronger than Calvin Klein.

Don't think of Marie. Don't think of Marie.

"Your's has changed too." I tell her as calmly as body will allow. I rise, grab my shirt off the floor. And for once it is Jean who is watching me walk away. I hope my face never looked as red and pinched as her's.

I can do this.

She's in the lounge watching TV, curled up into a ball.

I can do this.

Blinky has been gone a month. His Aunt or Stepmother or Something took him. So we are alone.

I can do this.

"Hey." I step in hesitantly. Marie looks up. She seems anxious, stressed. those shadows, which had disappeared a week ago, are back and tinged with a darker purple.

"Hey, Logan." She welcomes me with a smile of such frank relief. "It's been awhile."

I wince. God.

I can do this.

"Can I sit down?"

Marie nods. "Are you...were you mad at me?"

"Of course not, Kid."

"Oh." She doesn't seem reassured. I sigh.

I can do this.

"I'm ah...sorry 'bout all that. I've been a little busy."

It's shitty, but it is the best apology I can manage, and Marie appears to understand. She nods her acceptance, and I settle back onto the cushions-a safe two feet between us.

I can do this.

Marie doesn't say much. Like me, I guess. She has a way of speaking with her different smiles. The little rise in her lips now promises she won't ask any questions; she's just happy to have me back.

I can do this.

"How...how you doin', Kid?"

She shrugs. "I'm alright."

"You're still wearing your gloves?"

"Uh-huh," she says, as if agreeing with me instead of answering a question. "My control's still a bit iffy."

I think there's a bit more to that story, but I don't press.

I look at the TV, but see nothing but see nothing but colored swirls and dots, senseless. My eyes are dragged back to Marie. Why can't I find that easy groove we had before? I'm trapped with a need so strong it's crippling, and when I look at her everything in my soul demands I close that two foot gap.

"What's wrong,Logan?"

I can do this.

"Marie-"

"Wolverine."

I jerk. It's one of the few times in my remembered life I've ever been startle by someones entrance.

Scott stands by the door, lips pressed into a single line.

"Did you not hear the Professor's signal? We're to meet in the briefing room immediately. We have a mission."

The coil of tension in my chest tightens, making any relief I feel meaningless in comparison.

"Go to bed," Scott commands Marie. "You shouldn't be up this late."

I don't think about how Marie's smile tells her sadness, or how her brow crinkles when she says, "Be careful."

"Wolverine."

"Alright. Alright I'm coming."

I'm climbing the stairs slowly, hunched over like the old man I am. Each step is arduous, taking a strength I barely have. My flesh is hot, brittle and fluid at the same time. It's like someone attached play-doughty to my muscles with superglue and tried to pass it off as skin. Gotta be careful when I walk to not let my legs rub together, lest some of that play-dough sloughs off.

As it turns out, it's neither a pleasant experience nor a good idea to stand in front of a flamethrower. If you're taking notes, you might wanna jot that little tidbit down.

But I'll be alright. I will. In a few hours my skin will feel natural again, and this pain will be a memory. I just gotta...just gotta rest for awhile. Jesus. why the fuck did they put me on the fourth floor?

Ororo wanted me to go to the med lab, but Jean said it would be a waste of bed space and that there were plenty of students without healing factors. She turned to me with the air of a parent humoring an overindulged child, and asked if I wanted an aspirin.

I reach my bedroom on legs close to collapsing. The doorknob's a bit tricky-my fingers are numb-but I've almost got it turned when I hear the sound. A heartbeat, just inside. Soft breathing. Son of a bitch.

I growl tiredly. I swear to god, if it's Jean, I'll put a claw through her skull. I swear.

It hurts to inhale through my nose-normal air burns like bleach in my newly-formed nostrils.

I identify the person's scent and let my forehead hit the wood.

Marie.

Aw, fuck.

For a moment I consider sleeping on the couch. but I'll be damned if I'm gonna walk down those stairs again. This floor, on the other hand, is temptingly, conveniently close.

Hell. I open the door, step inside.

Marie is laying on her side, on top of the covers. A thin strand of white hair has fallen across her lips, and it twitches when she breathes. I've never watched her like this. She's so still.

She's so beautiful.

I pause there, aware of the griminess of my skin, aware that I'm dressed only in a pair of sweatpants(the leather suit had been reduced to bloody string), aware that injury can't stop some feelings.

I'm debating the merits of feigned indifference and friendship when Marie wakes.

"Mmmh...Logan....hey! Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

Her face is sleepy, fretful. Her voice is hesitant. "You look terrible."

"I'm okay."

She blushes. "I...uh...couldn't sleep. And I was worried about you ...thought you wouldn't mind if I..."

I barely notice when my feet move forward. The mattress, much abused, creaks under my weight. My body thanks me for the reprieve.

"You want me to go?" Marie whispers.

I shake my head wordlessly, and after a moment she lays back down.

I look at the girl beside me- a part of me counting the centimeters between us, another saying forget hurt, get my ass out of there now. And still another part that's just taking in the golden flakes in her irises.

"Hey, Kid?"

"Yeah?" Her breath tickles my throat.

"Why do you wear my tags?"

I see her surprise, how her thoughts are spinning behind her expression. Marie's trying to pick her answer, not sure of my question.

"Because...because you gave them to me, Logan."

I close my eyes briefly. Inhale, exhale.

"I think I gotta tell you somethin'."

"Okaaay..."

"I don't know how to say it."

"So use a thesaurus." Marie tries to grin and fails.

I smell...fear? Worry.

I can do this.

"I've uh...I've...uh...I've got feelings-feelings for you."

The silence stretches on for an infinity. Her lips are wobbling. I don't need to smell her shock. Once again I shut my eyes. I can't look at her face, or those glittering eyes.

"I want you," I whisper, just in case she need clarification. "I really want you."

"Logan." Her voice is quiet, gentle.

I focus on the dark behind my eyelids, body tense.

"Logan, you've got me."


	9. Gravity: The Inevitable Pull

_NOTE: This chapter is rated __**M FOR MATURE**__. Young children: LOOK AWAY_.

Gravity: The Inevitable Pull

or

Friction: When Rubbed Together

I open my eyes to Marie's face, sweet and shy. And there's a flicker of fear, that only makes me care for her more. She's afraid of a rejection, of me laughing or turning away. I know because it's a mirror of my expression.

With a heavy arm I reach across the covers and tug Marie to my side. She comes willingly, resting her head in that hollow by my shoulder. Such a familiar act, but it's never felt so monumental. Her soft curves pressed against my body, a warm, comforting weight. I kiss the top of her head, silky strands against my lips. Marie slides her palm over my stomach, letting it curl up just above my belly button. That's one of the things I'll always remember, that innocent curve of her fingers.

We are still, quiet with each other. I listen to the steady throb of her heart beat as sleep finally comes to take me away.

I wake in the same position, an hour or two later. No use looking at the clock- I silenced that beeping monstrosity months ago.

I look at the girl laying in the crook of my arm. The simple rise and fall of her chest hypnotizes me-I have not forgotten the time when it was motionless- and it takes a great effort to shift her away. Marie fusses, squirms adorably, but does not wake. I tuck the covers around her to replace my body heat and go into the bathroom.

Strange, but my thoughts haven't been so quiet in a long time. I stand in the shower and let the hot streams sluithe away all the sweat, the dirt and blood of the earlier fight. There's a calm in me, or perhaps a resignation, knowing that for better or worse I am on a definitive path now, whose pull I have not the will to fight. Any voice that happens to be shouting in my head-

*(what the hell is wrong with you? she's a kid! she's a kid! you can't do this! leave! run!)*

-has the strength of a fly, batting against this pull.

When every last bit of dead skin has sunk down the drain, when I smell decent even to my nose, I shut off the water and step out. Quick rub-down with the towel, droplets splattering on the floor. I really need to clean up in here. A second's hesitation, and I pick up the sweatpants again. They're better than nothing. I have never been...shy about nudity, but the idea of walking out stark naked to Marie is too presumptuous even for me.

On second thought...no. No.

She's awake, sitting half-up in the jumble of covers and leaning back on her elbows. There's still an air of uncertainty about her, and I try to make my expression as open as possible. But a pink, familiar stain spreads across her cheeks, her scent thickens deliciously- and these cotton sweats are definitely, definitely inadequate.

I cross the short space between the doorway and the bed, sit on the edge of the mattress. Marie watches me expectantly, trustingly and I am painfully aware of how inexperienced she- especially her body - really is.

Does Marie understand the situation? Does she know what she's getting into? There's that annoying dissenting fly again. The answer is yes. I know Marie too well to ascribe naivety to her actions. But...

"Kid." I clear my throat, pick up on of the hands that lost their gloves somewhere in the night. My callous fingertips smooth over her more sensitive palm. "Kid, if you're...ah...gonna leave, you better do it now." Gently, I press a kiss to her inner wrist. Marie's breath hitches.

"No, that's-that's okay. I'd...like to stay." Trembling words, but no real fear. I can't smell a lie on her.

Wolverine is standing at full attention-

(Note: 'The Wolverine' is not a euphemism for my penis. But close enough.)

-flooding my system with adrenaline and hormones. But I am focused on soothing out that nervousness in Marie's scent.

I swallow, urge her a little closer, let my hand drift up her arm. She's so small- or perhaps I'm so large- that my palm can cover her neck and cheek simultaneously. Softly, I stroke the fine bones there, skin so warm and tender. So different from that night on the statue. Her brown eyes open wide, guileless dark orbs.

As if drawn by gravity, I lean forward. Closer, closer.

An intake of breath and the taste of something sweet, like kiwi. Silk lips, eager but unpracticed. Our first few are short, sampling. Dip and pull away, soften her up. Then more intense, coax those lips, those teeth, apart. Inside much, much sweeter than fruit. Marie...god, Marie....places a hand on my chest-caressing, not restraining. I hook an arm about her waist, pull until her breasts are cushioned against me. A warm, deep rumble opens in my throat. Her breasts, they're-they're-

Stop.

Slow. Slow.

I nuzzle her cheek bone, down her neck, find a spot near Marie's shoulder that makes her shiver. Interesting. Gotta remember that.

"Logan," she breathes-half whisper, half purr. That's right, Baby. I gotcha. I gotcha.

Slowly ease her back. Run my hand everywhere. Rub her back, stroke her arms, her legs. My own muscles feel tight, over heated.

I kiss her collar bone, bite and lick gently. She touches my face, my shoulders, my hair, as if indecisive or frantic. Marie's hip squirm, thighs parting reflexively and that smell...

"Marie." I almost whimper.

That nightgown has to come off. Now. Right now.

I tug the black cotton up, over her hip, over her head. It's tossed to the side, lost amid the bed sheets and forgotten. Not missed.

I monitor Marie's responses, her scent, searching for distress.

She only grips me harder.

My thoughts lose all coherency at the sight of her breasts. Pale, perky, soft. all the best adjectives. And I have a sinking suspicion those garbled noises aren't staying in my head.

"Baby," I murmur, dragging my fingertips down her side. Marie jerks, ticklish. Another thing to remember.

Her hair fans out across the pillow, framing the youthful face. I swear, if she backs out now I will die-healing factor or no.

"Marie, you gotta be...you sure?"

In all fairness, perhaps I should have stopped touching her when I asked.

"Yes...Mmmh...I...am..yes, Logan...yes..."

I give into temptation, kiss slowly up her belly. Up, up. Her skin, salty and sweet. Velvet. Untouched.

Marie gasps when I reach her breasts. I might have too, if my mouth weren't full.

"L-Lo-Logan," Marie stammers. God.

I stroke her stomach soothingly, and graze the pert nipple with my teeth. I could spend hours doing this, days. Weeks, listening to the sounds Marie's making.

But there are more pressing issues.

I return my lips to hers.

"Marie, Marie, Marie." Have to keep touching her breasts, though. Gotta-gotta do that.

I reach over to the nightstand, yank the drawer open with enough force to break it-it'll never close now. Fumble around hurriedly...where's the...there.

Slip a condom out of the box, rip it open. I've had lots of practice with this. With one hand I push down the sweats. Marie stares, her eyes very, very wide. I don't blame her. I smile, and slide the rubber over stiff flesh.

I've done alot of things in my fifteen remembered years- crazy and kinky and dangerous, pushing body and virtue to the limit. But I've never been with a virgin. My usual tastes run to more hardened women, capable of taking a quick pounding and greedy release.

It's never been like this.

"Marie, Baby." I kiss her cheek. "Sweetie, you know this is gonna hurt a bit?"

She nods, nuzzles my neck.

My blood's pounding, coursing hot as fire. But in the midst of this I feel a deep calm, a swell of affection for the girl beneath me. It's so strong, like a solid presence within me. A core that will never go away.

I press a knee between her legs, part her thighs so I might settle between them. Those panties-white, with a black ribbon-are an obstacle, but not for long.

Soft hair, pink petaled skin, a concentrated warmth.

My lips never leave Marie's face. Kissing, tickling, encouraging.

A brush against her entrance, a tight ring of muscle.

"Marie...Marie."

Slowly ease forward.

God, so tight. So hot. My body's trembling with the effort of restraint, but I can barely hear the Wolverine's voice. Perhaps because his is so blended with my own.

A gasp, a whimper of pain. the scent of blood. I've got my eyes locked on Marie's. A hundred promises and endearments spilling from me.

Sinking in, then pulling out. Over and over. And Marie is kissing my neck, my mouth, my cheek, my eyelids. She's talking, but I only recognize my name in the babble.

Rising tension. Ridged skin against tender. Steel in softer muscles. Beautiful traction. A static so..."Uh..." good it's almost painful.

"Yes...Logan...Logan..."

Marie's whimpers, her chest shuddering. Amazing smell. Building, building.

Her body thrashing, arching under mine. Warm, so warm.

"That's right, Baby. That's right."

Sudden clenching. Hips jerk, gush of liquid and I am not going slow any more.

Taste of blood, because I'm biting my lips rather than her shoulder. Hard. Fast. Hard.

Marie, caressing my shoulders. Fierce growl in my throat and then flames, filling her. Pumping. Spasming. Hoarse yell. Shut my eyes and find a galaxy, darkness.

A brief time of unconsciousness-no thought or sensation.

And then I'm back, leaning on my elbows because my body instinctively knows not to crush her.

Kissing her temple, again and again.

"I love you. I love you."


	10. Matter: To Change Or Not To Change

Matter: To Change Or Not To Change

(And)

Alchemy: Fair Exchange

Light dapples on the carpet, the corner of the bed. I run my fingers up and down Marie's back, lazily, memorizing the contours of her spine. She is asleep now, curled up on my chest, innocent but completely debauched. A beautiful combination.

I'm not tired, not at all. Just...supremely relaxed. Satisfied.

Watching Marie, I feel an intense, engulfing pride. I feel like throwing back my head and roaring -- but she would wake up, and it would be difficult to explain. I can do anything. I could kick a mountain into a pile of dust. I could skip across the Great Pyramids. And there's something else, a compulsion to possess and protect. It's such a- such a unique feeling. If I had a year to read all those fancy books in the library, maybe I could describe it to you. As it is, I only have one word in my vocabulary that comes close....warm.

She's got freckles on her lower back. They must have always been there, because I can't imagine Marie standing topless lately in the sun. Her nipples are more pink than brown and when she sleeps her lips twitch, as if laughing in her dreams.

I'll always remember her like this.

At least, for as long as I live.

But right now I can just lay here, take her in. No reason to get up any time soon. No reason at all. The smell of sex hangs in the air, the only perfume I like, coating everything like a thin blanket. Marie has a smear of pinkish blood on her thighs, and The Wolverine urges me to lick it off. I'll settle on a shower with her.

Yeah. Yeah, that'll be fun.

So many things I want to try with her. My mind entertains itself with a flurry of suggestions. I want to taste her. Yeah, that's gotta- that's gotta be on top of the list. I want her upright. I want her from behind. Against the shower tiles. Yeah. Against the wall. On the carpet. Outside...

I'm so unfathomably happy. Excited, like a young child. I can't wait. I can't wait.

But I don't shift, don't wake her. Keep tickling her back. Up. And down. Up. And down. Let her rest.

My body says it's about ten o'clock when Marie stirs. She blinks, rapidly, and then her eyes drift shyly up to mine.

"Hey, beautiful." I smile.

She grins with delight. "Hey." So happy. Marie stretches, making drowsy sounds of pleasure. But I do not miss that flinch, slight as it may have been.

"You hurt?"

Marie shakes her head quickly. "No. Just...sore. A little bit."

Her blush is adorable.

I roll over, kiss the tip of her nose. "A little bit?"

She giggles. It's not the hyena-squeak I've come to associate with most teenagers. Who'd have thought I could enjoy girlish laughter.

But the sounds Marie makes turn serious, and even better, when I slide my hand between her legs.

"Reckon I could do something about that." I tell her, gently the kneading the muscles of her thigh and moving up, up. She licks her lower lip.

Oh yeah.

******* {Logan} *******

Just like that, my whole body goes tense.

******* {Logan} ********

I wince. Chuck's little Brain-Com hurts.

******* {Logan, I need to speak with you. Immediately.} *******

His voice is cold, and hard. Shit.

Marie's rubbing my arms, trying to get my attention. Her lips move; she's saying something- but somebody has turned down the volume.

***** {Right now, Logan. I must insist.} ******

Oh shit.

I push my self away from Marie and sit up; she does the same, puzzled and confused.

"Logan?"

My foot gets caught in the covers. I untangle the sheets, maintaining a litany of curses in my head. I tug on random items of clothing, from my drawers and the floor. Their cleanliness is uncertain.

"Logan, what is it? What's wrong?"

I turn back to the pretty brunette in my bed, awkward.

"I've...ah...gotta go talk to the Professor, Kid." After a second's hesitation, I brush a kiss across her cheek.

I shut the door behind me on Marie and her bewildered eyes, ignoring the uneasy sensation in my chest.

"I am surprised...."

I've never seen the Professor angry. Even now, his voice remains level; his skin stays the same unflushed white. It's impressive. But it would be lunacy, stupid lunacy to call this man calm.

"....highly disappointed in your actions."

Xavier bites off each carefully-scripted declaration, as if struggling to contain himself. His eyes are narrow and there's a charged undercurrent to each word- apparent to even non mutants.

"Bought to my attention..."

And there's this scent, almost frantic.

"...must understand, this behavior is unacceptable."

I have the feeling Ol' Chuck's greatest worry is losing control over a member of his X-team.

"...no restrictions on your activities in your free time, outside this mansion..."

Jean sits in the corner, one leg crossed primly over the other. Strange look on her face- both gloating and wrathful. But she doesn't add much to the conversation, merely sits nodding her agreement with Xavier.

"...but that policy of blindness does not extend itself within this school."

We make a strange triangle, the three of us. I am separated from them by a desk and a wall of contempt.

"I thought you had more control."

I sit in that chair, responding little and talking even less.

"I understand you may have certain...urges, but there are boundaries you simply cannot cross. Rogue is a child. she may look like an adult, act like an adult, feel like and adult, but She. Is. A. Child. Rogue may be too fond of you to say no, too immature to fend off advances from a person she holds in such high regard. But that doesn't give anyone leave to abuse that respect. I know you care about her, Logan. I know that you would never....knowingly...harm her."

The inflections Xavier places on that word is not accidental, or mistakable. And his voice hitches, becomes intentionally uncertain about my desire to hurt Marie.

"So you know this cannot go any further. It must end now. Think of Rogue. She is happy here. She has a future. A - a sexual relationship now could jeopardize her education, her confidence, her well being now and in future relationships. You don't want that."

He's - he's right. I don't want that.

"You absolutely must restrain yourself, Logan. Be the honorable man I know you to be. Now, I am not asking for your resignation-"

"Professor," interrupts Jean, for the first time. "Please excuse me, but I disagree. We cannot allow Wolverine to remain at this school, in the presence of so many vulnerable young girls."

"This is an exceptional case, Jean. I do not believe the other children are in danger. If they were, I-"

"But Professor!" Jean leans forward imploringly, serious. "Is it worth the risk? i mean, we've always known he does not have the same moral code as normal individuals-"

Xavier clenches his jaw, and I understand. If he were the only telepath in this place, I would not be sitting her now. Not this morning, at least. Chuck is happy to ignore...indiscretions, for the sake of peace.

His team. His fucking team.

"I trust that Logan-," he begins.

"But-but Professor! That's just it. He cannot be trusted. Not with people. Not with girls. Not with children. He is a rap-"

"Jean!" Xavier snaps, warningly.

I am clenching the arms of the chair. Splinters in my palms; I'll pick them out later. I'm furious, and something else.

No mirror necessary to know I have gone pale.

Chuck and Jean stare at each other, words I cannot hear passing between them. Her lips are a thin line.

"Now, will you excuse us?", Xavier requests/orders. And the doctor stands, storms out of the office in a sophisticated, perfumed rage.

The mahogany door closes and Xavier looks at me. Suddenly his manner is confiding, tolerant. Father-And-Son-Just-Between-Us-Guys.

"You don't have to leave," he coaxes. "You can keep your room here, your position. Rogue will be fine. It's the best thing for her. You see that? We'll just...we'll take her out of your training class, alright? Rearrange her schedule, so you two never have to run into each other. Remove temptation, hmmm? I can do it."

I'll always be tempted by her.

I leave Xavier's office feeling dazed. My heartbeat is not quite normal and my surroundings seem too bright. My boots thump against the rugs, although I am walking quietly. In the front hall, I pause. There's only one end to this. There's only ever been one.

I think about Marie. I wonder if she's still in my room. I look at the exit, and think about taking off and never coming back. About not saying anything to anyone. But I know I can't do that. Not yet. I can't leave unprepared this time, with only the shirt on my back. I won't. But I do walk out those doors. Errands to run.

"How can I help you, Sir?"

"I'd like one of those."

"Those? Alright, sir, which one would you like?"

"That...ah...that one."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I am."

"An excellent choice, Sir. I'll get it ready. Would you like it now?"

"Yeah."

"And how will you be paying?"

"Cash."

An hour later, I pull up that paved driveway in the pickup, the new trailer. They've got the same shitty paint job as my last ones, but a little bigger. From the back I unload Summer's bike, for the last time, and push it into the garage. I consider stealing it, but not seriously.

It was never mine.

With an intake of breath, and a quick check of my resolve, I head inside. I'll be on my way soon, back on the road I'm used to, after I collect the few things that belong to me.

"Yo- yo Wolvie!!"

Son of a bitch. At the bottom of the staircase I turn. I am not in the mood to deal with Yellow today.

But Jubilee appears all the same, popping a truly enormous bubble of gum. Yellow spandex and a Greenday t-shirt. For God's sake.

"Excuse me?", I bite out. Jubilee has earned a black belt in Irritating, and she never hesitates to show it off. Especially when I'm around.

"Sorry. Mr. Logan Sir."

"What do you want, Jubilee?"

She twirls a stand of her hair. "Rogue's lookin for ya."

Oh.

"Where is she?"

"In her Den Of Solitude, la bedroom de Rogue-y."

I swallow, nod a curt thanks, and proceed up the stairs.

I take my time, counting the steps, noting swirls in the wooden boards that look like eyes. My heart is fluttering and I'm sweating. I need a shower. I'm worried, nervous. How will she react? Will she take it badly? What will she say? What will she do? I don't want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her.

Gotta remember that.

Second floor. Mostly empty; the majority of students are downstairs. I missed my class, of course. But I'm sure Chuck took care of it. Funny, I'll actually miss teaching. I'll miss my students. They were starting to get good, or at least lose some of that abominable suckiness.

My legs feel weighted- more so than usual- as I walk down the hall. Last door. Steel myself. Knock.

I don't wait for the handle to turn, or a voice to say Come In.

She's leaving the bathroom. Wet hair, fresh clothes. Marie smells clean and floral and so- so *mine* that it's hard to focus. But I have to. I have to.

A happy, relieved smile. Just for me. Just like last night. Pink cheeks, a special glow impossible to replicate. Girl-Now-Woman.

Oh, god. God.

"He-ey." I stick by the door, hands shoved deep in my pockets. Perhaps something about this stance is familiar, tips her off, because Marie keeps space between us. She stands by her desk. I can see it's against her will. The girl's half-trembling with the compulsion to come hug me.

"Logan." How can she say my name like it's a blessing? "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, Kid. I'm okay." It's awkward, standing so formally apart from each other. I ache for her.

"Did you get in trouble with the Professor?"

Jesus. I can do this. Just- just do it. Say it.

"Kid, I'm...I'm leaving. I have to go."

Marie freezes, staring at me. Wide eyes, uncomprehending, like I've just slapped her. Kicked her. Shot her. I watch her cheeks lose color, like they've been drained.

I clear my throat, steady myself. I can do this. I can do this.

"I'd like my tags back, please."

It's like watching a vase shattering, though Marie barely moves. It's all behind her eyes. Her lips are trembling uncontrollably, and she's shaking and she's hurt and I'm hurting too and I know I know I know I know.

I pull my hand out of my pocket, pull out the satiny block.

Offer it to her. A small, green, box.

"You can...ah...have this instead. If you want."

And Marie is looking at that box, looking at that silver band inside and she's crying now and she's crying hard. But she's smiling and nodding and saying yes, yes, yes and she's in my arms and - and-

And there was only ever one end to this.


End file.
